AMERICAN 

HUMOROUS 

SHORT 

STORIES 


UBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  0F 
CAUI-ORWr* 

SAN 


THE   BEST 

AMERICAN   HUMOROUS 
SHORT   STORIES 


The  Best 

American  Humorous 
Short  Stories 

Edited  by 
ALEXANDER  jJESSUP 


Editor  of  "Representative  American  Short  Storiet," 

"The  Book  of  the  Short  Story,"  the  "Little 

French  Masterpieces"  Series,  etc. 


I 


EcTlttTOH     HOlUiff 


New  York 
CARLTON    HOUSE 


MANUFACTURED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 


THE  LITTLE  FRENCHMAN  AND  His  WATER  LOTS 1839       I 

George  Pope  Morris 

THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  ODD 1844       7 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 

THE    SCHOOLMASTER'S    PROGRESS 1844      18 

Caroline  M.  S.  Kirkland 

THE  WATKINSON   EVENING 1846      34 

Eliza  Leslie 

TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES 1854      52 

George  William  Curtis 

MY  DOUBLE  ;  AND  How  HE  UNDID  ME 1859      75 

Edward  Everett  Hale 
A  VISIT  TO  THE  ASYLUM  FOR  AGED  AND  DECAYED 

PUNSTERS 1861      94 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 

THE  CELEBRATED  JUMPING  FROG  OF  CALAVERAS  COUNTY.  .1865    102 
Mark  Twain 

ELDER  BROWN'S  BACKSLIDE 1885    109 

Harry  Stillwell  Edwards 

THE  HOTEL  EXPERIENCE  OF  MR.  PINK  FLUKER 1886    128 

Richard  Malcolm  Johnston 

THE  NICE  PEOPLE 1890    141 

Henry  Cttyler  Bunner 

THE    BULLER-PODINGTON    COMPACT 1897      151 

Frank  Richard  Stockton 

COLONEL  STARBOTTLE  FOR  THE  PLAINTIFF 1901    170 

Bret  Harte 

THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES 1902    199 

0.  Henry 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BARGAIN  DAY  AT  TUTT  HOUSE 1905    213 

George  Randolph  Chester 
A  CALL  1906    237 

Grace  MacGowan  Cooke 
How  THE  WIDOW  WON  THE  DEACON 1911    252 

William  James  Lampton 

GIDEON 1914    260 

Wells  Hastings 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  Nice  People,  by  Henry  Cuyler  Bunner,  is  republished 
from  his  volume,  Short  Sixes,  by  permission  of  its  publish 
ers,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  The  Buller-Podington  Com 
pact,  by  Frank  Richard  Stockton,  is  from  his  volume,  Afield 
and  Afloat,  and  is  republished  by  permission  of  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons.  Colonel  Starbottle  for  the  Plaintiff,  by  Bret 
Harte,  is  from  the  collection  of  his  stories  entitled  Openings 
in  the  Old  Trail,  and  is  republished  by  permission  of  the 
Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  the  authorized  publishers  of 
Bret  Harte's  complete  works.  The  Duplicity  of  Hargraves, 
by  O.  Henry,  is  from  his  volume,  Sixes  and  Sevens,  and  is 
republished  by  permission  of  its  publishers,  Doubleday,  Page 
&  Co.  These  stories  are  fully  protected  by  copyright,  and 
should  not  be  republished  except  by  permission  of  the  pub 
lishers  mentioned.  Thanks  are  due  Mrs.  Grace  MacGowan 
Cooke  for  permission  to  use  her  story,  A  Call,  republished 
here  from  Harper's  Magazine;  Wells  Hastings,  for  permission 
to  reprint  his  story,  Gideon,  from  The  Century  Magazine; 
and  George  Randolph  Chester,  for  permission  to  include 
Bargain  Day  at  Tutt  House,  from  McClure's  Magazine.  I 
would  also  thank  the  heirs  of  the  late  lamented  Colonel 
William  J.  Lampton  for  permission  to  use  his  story,  How 
the  Widow  Won  the  Deacon,  from  Harper's  Bazaar.  These 
stories  are  all  copyrighted,  and  cannot  be  republished 
except  by  authorization  of  their  authors  or  heirs.  The  editor 
regrets  that  their  publishers  have  seen  fit  to  refuse  him  per 
mission  to  include  George  W.  Cable's  story,  "Posson  Jone'," 
and  Irvin  S.  Cobb's  story,  The  Smart  Aleck.  He  also  regrets 
he  was  unable  to  obtain  a  copy  of  Joseph  C.  Duport's  story, 
The  Wedding  at  Timber  Hollow,  in  time  for  inclusion,  to 
which  its  merits — as  he  remembers  them — certainly  entitle  it 
Mr.  Duport,  in  addition  to  his  literary  activities,  has  started 
an  interesting  "back  to  Nature"  experiment  at  Westfield, 
Massachusetts. 


To 

CHARLES  GOODRICH  WHITING 
Critic,  Poet,  Friend 


THE  LITTLE  FRENCHMAN 
AND  HIS  WATER  LOTS 

BY  GEORGE  POPE  MORRIS  (1802-1864) 

Look  into  those  they  call  unfortunate, 

And,  closer  view'd,  you'll  find  they  are  unwise. — Young. 

Let  wealth  come  in  by  comely  thrift, 
And  not  by  any  foolish  shift: 

"Tis  haste 

Makes  waste : 

Who  gripes  too  hard  the  dry  and  slippery  sand 
Holds  none  at  all,  or  little,  in  his  hand. — Herrick. 

Let  well  alone. — Proverb. 

HOW  much  real  comfort  every  one  might  enjoy  if  he 
would  be  contented  with  the  lot  in  which  heaven  has 
cast  him,  and  how  much  trouble  would  be  avoided  if 
people  would  only  "let  well  alone."  A  moderate  independence, 
quietly  and  honestly  procured,  is  certainly  every  way  prefer 
able  even  to  immense  possessions  achieved  by  the  wear  and 
tear  of  mind  and  body  so  necessary  to  procure  them.  Yet 
there  are  very  few  individuals,  let  them  be  doing  ever  so 
well  in  the  world,  who  are  not  always  straining  every  nerve 
to  do  better;  and  this  is  one  of  the  many  causes  why  fail 
ures  in  business  so  frequently  occur  among  us.  The  pres 
ent  generation  seem  unwilling  to  "realize"  by  slow  and  sure 
degrees;  but  choose  rather  to  set  their  whole  hopes  upon 
a  single  cast,  which  either  makes  or  mars  them  forever! 

Gentle  reader,  do  you  remember  Monsieur  Poopoo?  He 
used  to  keep  a  small  toy-store  in  Chatham,  near  the  corner 
of  Pearl  Street.  You  must  recollect  him,  of  course.  He 
lived  there  for  many  years,  and  was  one  of  the  most  polite 
and  accommodating  of  shopkeepers.  When  a  juvenile,  you 

From  The  Little  Frenchman  and  His  Water  Lots,  with  Othef 
Sketches  of  the  Times  (1839),  by  George  Pope  Morris. 

I 


2        AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

have  bought  tops  and  marbles  of  him  a  thousand  times. 
To  be  sure  you  have;  and  seen  his  vinegar- visage  lighted  up 
with  a  smile  as  you  flung  him  the  coppers;  and  you  have 
laughed  at  his  little  straight  queue  and  his  dimity  breeches, 
and  all  the  other  oddities  that  made  up  the  every-day  ap 
parel  of  my  little  Frenchman.  Ah,  I  perceive  you  recollect 
him  now. 

Well,  then,  there  lived  Monsieur  Poopoo  ever  since  he 
came  from  "dear,  delightful  Paris,"  as  he  was  wont  to  call 
the  city  of  his  nativity — there  he  took  in  the  pennies  for 
his  kickshaws — there  he  laid  aside  five  thousand  dollars 
against  a  rainy  day — there  he  was  as  happy  as  a  lark — and 
there,  in  all  human  probability,  he  would  have  been  to  this 
very  day,  a  respected  and  substantial  citizen,  had  he  been 
willing  to  "let  well  alone."  But  Monsieur  Poopoo  had 
heard  strange  stories  about  the  prodigious  rise  in  real  es 
tate;  and,  having  understood  that  most  of  his  neighbors 
had  become  suddenly  rich  by  speculating  in  lots,  he  in 
stantly  grew  dissatisfied  with  his  own  lot,  forthwith  deter 
mined  to  shut  up  shop,  turn  everything  into  cash,  and  set 
about  making  money  in  right-down  earnest.  No  sooner 
said  than  done;  and  our  quondam  storekeeper  a  few  days 
afterward  attended  an  extensive  sale  of  real  estate,  at  the 
Merchants'  Exchange. 

There  was  the  auctioneer,  with  his  beautiful  and  inviting 
lithographic  maps — all  the  lots  as  smooth  and  square  and 
enticingly  laid  out  as  possible — and  there  were  the  specula 
tors — and  there,  in  the  midst  of  them,  stood  Monsieur 
Poopoo. 

"Here  they  are,  gentlemen,"  said  he  of  the  hammer,  "the 
most  valuable  lots  ever  offered  for  sale.  Give  me  a  bid  for 
them!" 

"One  hundred  each,"  said  a  bystander. 

"One  hundred!"  said  the  auctioneer,  "scarcely  enough  to 
pay  for  the  maps.  One  hundred — going — and  fifty — gone! 
Mr.  H.,  they  are  yours.  A  noble  purchase.  You'll  sell  those 
same  lots  in  less  than  a  fortnight  for  fifty  thousand  dollars 
profit!" 

Monsieur  Poopoo  pricked  up  his  ears  at  this,  and  was  lost 


THE    LITTLE    FRENCHMAN  3 

in  astonishment.  This  was  a  much  easier  way  certainly  of 
accumulating  riches  than  selling  toys  in  Chatham  Street, 
and  he  determined  to  buy  and  mend  his  fortune  without 
delay. 

The  auctioneer  proceeded  in  his  sale.  Other  parcels  were 
offered  and  disposed  of,  and  all  the  purchasers  were  prom 
ised  immense  advantages  for  their  enterprise.  At  last  came 
a  more  valuable  parcel  than  all  the  rest.  The  company 
pressed  around  the  stand,  and  Monsieur  Poopoo  did  the 
same. 

"I  now  offer  you,  gentlemen,  these  magnificent  lots,  de 
lightfully  situated  on  Long  Island,  with  valuable  water  privi 
leges.  Property  in  fee — title  indisputable — terms  of  sale, 
cash — deeds  ready  for  delivery  immediately  after  the  sale. 
How  much  for  them?  Give  them  a  start  at  something. 
How  much?"  The  auctioneer  looked  around;  there  were 
no  bidders.  At  last  he  caught  the  eye  of  Monsieur  Poopoo. 
"Did  you  say  one  hundred,  sir?  Beautiful  lots — valuable 
water  privileges — shall  I  say  one  hundred  for  you?" 

"Oui,  monsieur;  I  will  give  you  von  hundred  dollar  a- 
piece,  for  de  lot  vid  de  valuarble  vatare  privalege;  c'est  qa" 

"Only  one  hundred  apiece  for  these  sixty  valuable  lots — 
only  one  hundred — going — going — going — gone!" 

Monsieur  Poopoo  was  the  fortunate  possessor.  The  auc 
tioneer  congratulated  him — the  sale  closed — and  the  com 
pany  dispersed. 

"Pardonnez-moi,  monsieur,"  said  Poopoo,  as  the  auc 
tioneer  descended  his  pedestal,  "you  shall  excusez-moi,  if 
I  shall  go  to  votre  bureau,  your  counting-house,  ver  quick 
to  make  every  ting  sure  wid  respec  to  de  lot  vid  de  valuarble 
vatare  privalege.  Von  leetle  bird  in  de  hand  he  vorth  two 
in  de  tree,  c'est  vrai — eh?" 

"Certainly,  sir." 

"Veil  den,  allons." 

And  the  gentlemen  repaired  to  the  counting-house,  where 
the  six  thousand  dollars  were  paid,  and  the  deeds  of  the 
property  delivered.  Monsieur  Poopoo  put  these  carefully 
in  his  pocket,  and  as  he  was  about  taking  his  leave,  the 
auctioneer  made  him  a  present  of  the  lithographic  outline 


4        AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

of  the  lots,  which  was  a  very  liberal  thing  on  his  part,  con 
sidering  the  map  was  a  beautiful  specimen  of  that  glorious 
art.  Poopoo  could  not  admire  it  sufficiently.  There  were 
,his  sixty  lots,  as  uniform  as  possible,  and  his  little  gray  eyes 
sparkled  like  diamonds  as  they  wandered  from  one  end  of 
the  spacious  sheet  to  the  other. 

Poopoo 's  heart  was  as  light  as  a  feather,  and  he  snapped 
his  fingers  in  the  very  wantonness  of  joy  as  he  repaired  to 
Delmonico's,  and  ordered  the  first  good  French  dinner  that 
had  gladdened  his  palate  since  his  arrival  in  America. 

After  having  discussed  his  repast,  and  washed  it  down 
with  a  bottle  of  choice  old  claret,  he  resolved  upon  a  visit 
to  Long  Island  to  view  his  purchase.  He  consequently  im 
mediately  hired  a  horse  and  gig,  crossed  the  Brooklyn  ferry, 
and  drove  along  the  margin  of  the  river  to  the  Wallabout, 
the  location  in  question. 

Our  friend,  however,  was  not  a  little  perplexed  to  find  his 
property.  Everything  on  the  map  was  as  fair  and  even  as 
possible,  while  all  the  grounds  about  him  were  as  undulated 
as  they  could  well  be  imagined,  and  there  was  an  elbow  of 
the  East  River  thrusting  itself  quite  into  the  ribs  of  the 
land,  which  seemed  to  have  no  business  there.  This  puz 
zled  the  Frenchman  exceedingly;  and,  being  a  stranger  in 
those  parts,  he  called  to  a  farmer  in  an  adjacent  field. 

"Mon  ami,  are  you  acquaint  vid  dis  part  of  de  country 
—eh?" 

"Yes,  I  was  born  here,  and  know  every  inch  of  it." 

"Ah,  c'est  bien,  dat  vill  do,"  and  the  Frenchman  got  out 
of  the  gig,  tied  the  horse,  and  produced  his  lithographic 
map. 

"Den  maybe  you  vill  have  de  kindness  to  show  me  de 
sixty  lot  vich  I  have  bought,  vid  de  valuarble  vatare  priva- 
lege?" 

The  farmer  glanced  his  eye  over  the  paper. 

"Yes,  sir,  with  pleasure;  if  you  will  be  good  enough  to 
get  into  my  boat,  I  will  row  you  out  to  them!" 

"Vat  dat  you  say,  sure?" 

"My  friend,"  said  the  farmer,  "this  section  of  Long  Island 
has  recently  been  bought  up  by  the  speculators  of  New  York, 


THE   LITTLE   FRENCHMAN  S 

and  laid  out  for  a  great  city;  but  the  principal  street  is  only 
visible  at  low  tide.  When  this  part  of  the  East  River  is 
filled  up,  it  will  be  just  there.  Your  lots,  as  you  will  per 
ceive,  are  beyond  it;  and  are  now  all  under  water." 

At  first  the  Frenchman  was  incredulous.  He  could  not 
believe  his  senses.  As  the  facts,  however,  gradually  broke 
upon  him,  he  shut  one  eye,  squinted  obliquely  at  the  heavens 
— the  river — the  farmer — and  then  he  turned  away  and 
squinted  at  them  all  over  again!  There  was  his  purchase 
sure  enough;  but  then  it  could  not  be  perceived  for  there 
was  a  river  flowing  over  it!  He  drew  a  box  from  his  waist 
coat  pocket,  opened  it,  with  an  emphatic  knock  upon  the 
lid,  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  and  restored  it  to  his  waistcoat 
pocket  as  before.  Poopoo  was  evidently  in  trouble,  having 
"thoughts  which  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears";  and,  as  his 
grief  was  also  too  big  for  words,  he  untied  his  horse,  jumped 
into  his  gig,  and  returned  to  the  auctioneer  in  hot  haste. 

It  was  near  night  when  he  arrived  at  the  auction-room — 
his  horse  in  a  foam  and  himself  in  a  fury.  The  auctioneer 
was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  legs  stuck  out  of  a 
low  window,  quietly  smoking  a  cigar  after  the  labors  of  the 
day,  and  humming  the  music  from  the  last  new  opera. 

"Monsieur,  I  have  much  plaisir  to  fin'  you,  chez  vous, 
at  home." 

"Ah,  Poopoo!  glad  to  see  you.     Take  a  seat,  old  boy." 

"But  I  shall  not  take  de  seat,  sare." 

"No — why,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  beaucoup  de  matter.  I  have  been  to  see  de  gran  lot 
vot  you  sell  me  to-day." 

"Well,  sir,  I  hope  you  like  your  purchase?" 

"No,  monsieur,  I  no  like  him." 

"I'm  sorry  for  it;  but  there  is  no  ground  for  your  com 
plaint." 

"No,  sare;  dare  is  no  ground  at  all — de  ground  is  all 
vatare!" 

"You  joke!" 

"I  no  joke.  I  nevare  joke;  je  n'entends  pas  la  raillerie, 
Sare,  voulez-vous  have  de  kindness  to  give  me  back  de 
money  vot  I  pay!" 


6        AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"Certainly  not." 

"Den  vill  you  be  so  good  as  to  take  de  E?st  River  off  de 
top  of  my  lot?" 

"That's  your  business,  sir,  not  mine." 

"Den  I  make  von  mauvaise  affaire — von  gran  mistake!" 

"I  hope  not.  I  don't  think  you  have  thrown  your  money 
away  in  the  land." 

"No,  sare;  but  I  tro  it  avay  in  de  vatare!" 

"That's  not  my  fault." 

"Yes,  sare,  but  it  is  your  fault.  You're  von  ver  gran 
rascal  to  swindle  me  out  of  de  V argent." 

"Hello,  old  Poopoo,  you  grow  personal;  and  if  you  can't 
keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head,  you  must  go  out  of  my 
counting-room." 

"Vare  shall  I  go  to,  eh?" 

"To  the  devil,  for  aught  I  care,  you  foolish  old  French 
man!"  said  the  auctioneer,  waxing  warm. 

"But,  sare,  I  vill  not  go  to  de  devil  to  oblige  you!"  re 
plied  the  Frenchman,  waxing  warmer.  "You  sheat  me  out 
of  all  de  dollar  vot  I  make  in  Shatham  Street;  but  I  vill 
not  go  to  de  devil  for  all  dat.  I  vish  you  may  go  to  de  devil 
yourself  you  dem  yankee-doo-dell,  and  I  vill  go  and  drown 
myself,  tout  de  suite,  right  avay." 

"You  couldn't  make  a  better  use  of  your  water  privileges, 
old  boy!" 

"Ah,  misericorde!  Ah,  mon  dieu,  je  suis  abime.  I  am 
ruin!  I  am  done  up!  I  am  break  all  into  ten  sousan  leetle 
pieces!  I  am  von  lame  duck,  and  I  shall  vaddle  across  de 
gran  ocean  for  Paris,  vish  is  de  only  valuarble  vatare  priva- 
lege  dat  is  left  me  a  present!" 

Poor  Poopoo  was  as  good  as  his  word.  He  sailed  hi  the 
next  packet,  and  arrived  in  Paris  almost  as  penniless  as  the 
day  he  left  it. 

Should  any  one  feel  disposed  to  doubt  the  veritable  cir 
cumstances  here  recorded,  let  him  cross  the  East  River  to 

the  Wallabout,  and  farmer  J will  row  him  out  to  the 

very  place  where  the  poor  Frenchman's  lots  still  remain 
under  water. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  ODD 

BY  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  (1809-1849) 

IT  was  a  chilly  November  afternoon.  I  had  just  consum 
mated  an  unusually  hearty  dinner,  of  which  the  dyspeptic 
truffe  formed  not  the  least  important  item,  and  was  sitting 
alone  in  the  dining-room  with  my  feet  upon  the  fender  and 
at  my  elbow  a  small  table  which  I  had  rolled  up  to  the  fire, 
and  upon  which  were  some  apologies  for  dessert,  with  some 
miscellaneous  bottles  of  wine,  spirit,  and  liqueur.  In  the 
morning  I  had  been  reading  Glover's  Leonidas,  Wilkie's  Epi- 
goniad,  Lamartine's  Pilgrimage,  Barlow's  Columbiad,  Tuck- 
erman's  Sicily,  and  Griswold's  Curiosities,  I  am  willing  to 
confess,  therefore,  that  I  now  felt  a  little  stupid.  I  made 
effort  to  arouse  myself  by  frequent  aid  of  Lafitte,  and  all 
failing,  I  betook  myself  to  a  stray  newspaper  in  despair. 
Having  carefully  perused  the  column  of  "Houses  to  let," 
and  the  column  of  "Dogs  lost,"  and  then  the  columns  of 
"Wives  and  apprentices  runaway,"  I  attacked  with  great 
resolution  the  editorial  matter,  and  reading  it  from  begin 
ning  to  end  without  understanding  a  syllable,  conceived  the 
possibility  of  its  being  Chinese,  and  so  re-read  it  from  the 
end  to  the  beginning,  but  with  no  more  satisfactory  result. 
I  was  about  throwing  away  in  disgust 

This  folio  of  four  pages,  happy  work 
Which  not  even  critics  criticise, 

when  I  felt  my  attention  somewhat  aroused  by  the  paragraph 
which  follows: 

"The  avenues  to  death  are  numerous  and  strange.  A 
London  paper  mentions  the  decease  of  a  person  from  a 
singular  cause.  He  was  playing  at  'puff  the  dart,'  which 

From  The  Columbian  Magazine,  October,  1844. 

7 


8        AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

is  played  with  a  long  needle  inserted  in  some  worsted,  and 
blown  at  a  target  through  a  tin  tube.  He  placed  the  needle 
at  the  wrong  end  of  the  tube,  and  drawing  his  breath  strongly 
to  puff  the  dart  forward  with  force,  drew  the  needle  into 
his  throat.  It  entered  the  lungs,  and  in  a  few  days  killed 
him." 

Upon  seeing  this  I  fell  into  a  great  rage,  without  exactly 
knowing  why.  "This  thing,"  I  exclaimed,  "is  a  contemptible 
falsehood — a  poor  hoax — the  lees  of  the  invention  of  some 
pitiable  penny-a-liner,  of  some  wretched  concocter  of  acci 
dents  in  Cocaigne.  These  fellows  knowing  the  extravagant 
gullibility  of  the  age  set  their  wits  to  work  in  the  imagina 
tion  of  improbable  possibilities,  of  odd  accidents  as  they 
term  them,  but  to  a  reflecting  intellect  (like  mine,  I  added, 
in  parenthesis,  putting  my  forefinger  unconsciously  to  the 
side  of  my  nose),  to  a  contemplative  understanding  such 
as  I  myself  possess,  it  seems  evident  at  once  that  the  mar 
velous  increase  of  late  in  these  'odd  accidents'  is  by  far  the 
oddest  accident  of  all.  For  my  own  part,  I  intend  to  believe 
nothing  henceforward  that  has  anything  of  the  'singular' 
about  it." 

"Mein  Gott,  den,  vat  a  vool  you  bees  for  dat!"  replied 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  voices  I  ever  heard.  At  first 
I  took  it  for  a  rumbling  in  my  ears — such  as  a  man  some 
times  experiences  when  getting  very  drunk — but  upon  sec 
ond  thought,  I  considered  the  sound  as  more  nearly  resem 
bling  that  which  proceeds  from  an  empty  barrel  beaten  with 
a  big  stick;  and,  in  fact,  this  I  should  have  concluded  it  to 
be,  but  for  the  articulation  of  the  syllables  and  words.  I 
am  by  no  means  naturally  nervous,  and  the  very  few  glasses 
of  Lafitte  which  I  had  sipped  served  to  embolden  me  a  little, 
so  that  I  felt  nothing  of  trepidation,  but  merely  uplifted  my 
eyes  with  a  leisurely  movement  and  looked  carefully  around 
ihe  room  for  the  intruder.  I  could  not,  however,  perceive 
fcny  one  at  all. 

"Humph!"  resumed  the  voice  as  I  continued  my  survey, 
"you  mus  pe  so  dronk  as  de  pig  den  for  not  zee  me  as  I 
zit  here  at  your  zide." 

Hereupon  I  bethought  me  of  looking  immediately  before 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  ODD  9 

my  nose,  and  there,  sure  enough,  confronting  me  at  the 
table  sat  a  personage  nondescript,  although  not  altogether 
indescribable.  His  body  was  a  wine-pipe  or  a  rum  puncheon, 
or  something  of  that  character,  and  had  a  truly  Falstaffian 
air.  In  its  nether  extremity  were  inserted  two  kegs,  which 
seemed  to  answer  all  the  purposes  of  legs.  For  arms  there 
dangled  from  the  upper  portion  of  the  carcass  two  tolerably 
long  bottles  with  the  necks  outward  for  hands.  All  the 
head  that  I  saw  the  monster  possessed  of  was  one  of  those 
Hessian  canteens  which  resemble  a  large  snuff-box  with  a 
hole  in  the  middle  of  the  lid.  This  canteen  (with  a  funnel 
on  its  top  like  a  cavalier  cap  slouched  over  the  eyes)  was 
set  on  edge  upon  the  puncheon,  with  the  hole  toward  my 
self;  and  through  this  hole,  which  seemed  puckered  up  like 
the  mouth  of  a  very  precise  old  maid,  the  creature  was 
emitting  certain  rumbling  and  grumbling  noises  which  he 
evidently  intended  for  intelligible  talk. 

"I  zay,"  said  he,  "you  mos  pe  dronk  as  de  pig,  vor  zit 
dare  and  not  zee  me  zit  ere;  and  I  zay,  doo,  you  mos  pe 
pigger  vool  as  de  goose,  vor  to  dispelief  vat  iz  print  in  de 
print.  'Tiz  de  troof — dat  it  iz — ebery  vord  ob  it" 

"Who  are  you,  pray?"  said  I  with  much  dignity,  although 
somewhat  puzzled;  "how  did  you  get  here?  and  what  is  it 
you  are  talking  about?" 

"As  vor  ow  I  com'd  ere,"  replied  the  figure,  "dat  iz  none 
of  your  pizziness;  and  as  vor  vat  I  be  talking  apout,  I  be 
talk  apout  vat  I  tink  proper;  and  as  vor  who  I  be,  vy  dat  is 
de  very  ting  I  com'd  here  for  to  let  you  zee  for  yourself." 

"You  are  a  drunken  vagabond,"  said  I,  "and  I  shall  ring 
the  bell  and  order  my  footman  to  kick  you  into  the  street." 

"He!  he!  he!"  said  the  fellow,  "hu!  hu!  hu!  dat  you 
can't  do." 

"Can't  do!"  said  I,  "what  do  you  mean?  I  can't  do 
what?" 

"Ring  de  pell,"  he  replied,  attempting  a  grin  with  his  little 
villainous  mouth. 

Upon  this  I  made  an  effort  to  get  up  in  order  to  put  my 
threat  into  execution,  but  the  ruffian  just  reached  across  the 
table  very  deliberately,  and  hitting  me  a  tap  on  the  forehead 


io      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

with  the  neck  of  one  of  the  long  bottles,  knocked  me 
back  into  the  armchair  from  which  I  had  half  arisen.  I  was 
utterly  astounded,  and  for  a  moment  was  quite  at  a  loss 
what  to  do.  In  the  meantime  he  continued  his  talk. 

"You  zee,"  said  he,  "it  iz  te  bess  vor  zit  still;  and  now 
you  shall  know  who  I  pe.  Look  at  me!  zee!  I  am  te  Angel 
ov  te  Odd." 

"And  odd  enough,  too,"  I  ventured  to  reply;  "but  I  was 
always  under  the  impression  that  an  angel  had  wings." 

"Te  wing!"  he  cried,  highly  incensed,  "vat  I  pe  do  mit 
te  wing?  Mein  Gott!  do  you  take  me  for  a  shicken?" 

"No — oh,  no!"  I  replied,  much  alarmed;  "you  are  no 
chicken — certainly  not." 

"Well,  den,  zit  still  and  pehabe  yourself,  or  I'll  rap  you 
again  mid  me  vist.  It  iz  te  shicken  ab  te  wing,  und  te  owl 
ab  te  wing,  und  te  imp  ab  te  wing,  und  te  head-teuffel  ab 
te  wing.  Te  angel  ab  not  te  wing,  and  I  am  te  Angel  ov 
te  Odd." 

"And  your  business  with  me  at  present  is — is " 

"My  pizziness!"  ejaculated  the  thing,  "vy  vat  a  low-bred 
puppy  you  mos  pe  vor  to  ask  a  gentleman  und  an  angel 
apout  his  pizziness!" 

This  language  was  rather  more  than  I  could  bear,  even 
from  an  angel;  so,  plucking  up  courage,  I  seized  a  salt 
cellar  which  lay  within  reach,  and  hurled  it  at  the  head  of 
the  intruder.  Either  he  dodged,  however,  or  my  aim  was 
inaccurate;  for  all  I  accomplished  was  the  demolition  of 
the  crystal  which  protected  the  dial  of  the  clock  upon  the 
mantelpiece.  As  for  the  Angel,  he  evinced  his  sense  of  my 
assault  by  giving  me  two  or  three  hard,  consecutive  raps 
upon  the  forehead  as  before.  These  reduced  me  at  once  to 
submission,  and  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  confess  that,  either 
through  pain  or  vexation,  there  came  a  few  tears  into  my 
eyes. 

"Mein  Gott!"  said  the  Angel  of  the  Odd,  apparently  much 
softened  at  my  distress;  "mein  Gott,  te  man  is  eder  ferry 
dronk  or  ferry  zorry.  You  mos  not  trink  it  so  strong — you 
mcs  put  te  water  in  te  wine.  Here,  trink  dis,  like  a  good 
veller,  and  don't  gry  now — don't!" 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  ODD  11 

Hereupon  the  Angel  of  the  Odd  replenished  my  goblet 
(which  was  about  a  third  full  of  port)  with  a  colorless  fluid 
that  he  poured  from  one  of  his  hand-bottles.  I  observed 
that  these  bottles  had  labels  about  their  necks,  and  that 
these  labels  were  inscribed  "Kirschenwasser." 

The  considerate  kindness  of  the  Angel  mollified  me  in  no 
little  measure;  and,  aided  by  the  water  with  which  he  diluted 
my  port  more  than  once,  I  at  length  regained  sufficient  tem 
per  to  listen  to  his  very  extraordinary  discourse.  I  cannot 
pretend  to  recount  all  that  he  told  me,  but  I  gleaned  from 
what  he  said  that  he  was  a  genius  who  presided  over  the 
contretemps  of  mankind,  and  whose  business  it  was  to  bring 
about  the  odd  accidents  which  are  continually  astonishing 
the  skeptic.  Once  or  twice,  upon  my  venturing  to  express 
my  total  incredulity  in  respect  to  his  pretensions,  he  grew 
very  angry  indeed,  so  that  at  length  I  considered  it  the 
wiser  policy  to  say  nothing  at  all,  and  let  him  have  his  own 
way.  He  talked  on,  therefore,  at  great  length,  while  I  merely 
leaned  back  in  my  chair  with  my  eyes  shut,  and  amused 
myself  with  munching  raisins  and  filiping  the  stems  about 
the  room.  But,  by  and  by,  the  Angel  suddenly  construed 
this  behavior  of  mine  into  contempt.  He  arose  in  a  terrible 
passion,  slouched  his  funnel  down  over  his  eyes,  swore  a 
vast  oath,  uttered  a  threat  of  some  character,  which  I  did  not 
precisely  comprehend,  and  finally  made  me  a  low  bow  and 
departed,  wishing  me,  in  the  language  of  the  archbishop  in 
"Gil  Bias,"  beaucoup  de  bonheur  et  un  pen  plus  de  bon  sens. 

His  departure  afforded  me  relief.  The  very  few  glasses 
of  Lafitte  that  I  had  sipped  had  the  effect  of  rendering  me 
drowsy,  and  I  felt  inclined  to  take  a  nap  of  some  fifteen  or 
twenty  minutes,  as  is  my  custom  after  dinner.  At  six  I  had 
an  appointment  of  consequence,  which  it  was  quite  indis 
pensable  that  I  should  keep.  The  policy  of  insurance  for 
my  dwelling-house  had  expired  the  day  before;  and  some 
dispute  having  arisen  it  was  agreed  that,  at  six,  I  should 
meet  the  board  of  directors  of  the  company  and  settle  the 
terms  of  a  renewal.  Glancing  upward  at  the  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece  (for  I  felt  too  drowsy  to  take  out  my  watch),  I 
had  the  pleasure  to  find  that  I  had  still  twenty-five  minutes 


12      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

to  spare.  It  was  half-past  five;  I  could  easily  walk  to  the 
insurance  office  in  five  minutes;  and  my  usual  siestas  had 
never  been  known  to  exceed  five-and-twenty.  I  felt  suffi 
ciently  safe,  therefore,  and  composed  myself  to  my  slumbers 
forthwith. 

Having  completed  them  to  my  satisfaction,  I  again  looked 
toward  the  timepiece,  and  was  half  inclined  to  believe  in 
the  possibility  of  odd  accidents  when  I  found  that,  instead 
of  my  ordinary  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  I  had  been  dozing 
only  three;  for  it  still  wanted  seven-and-twenty  of  the  ap 
pointed  hour.  I  betook  myself  again  to  my  nap,  and  at 
length  a  second  time  awoke,  when,  to  my  utter  amazement, 
it  still  wanted  twenty-seven  minutes  of  six.  I  jumped  up 
to  examine  the  clock,  and  found  that  it  had  ceased  running. 
My  watch  informed  me  that  it  was  half-past  seven;  and,  of 
course,  having  slept  two  hours,  I  was  too  late  for  my  ap 
pointment.  "It  will  make  no  difference,"  I  said:  "I  can  call 
at  the  office  in  the  morning  and  apologize;  in  the  meantime 
what  can  be  the  matter  with  the  clock?"  Upon  examining 
it  I  discovered  that  one  of  the  raisin  stems  which  I  had 
been  filiping  about  the  room  during  the  discourse  of  the 
Angel  of  the  Odd  had  flown  through  the  fractured  crystal, 
and  lodging,  singularly  enough,  in  the  keyhole,  with  an  end 
projecting  outward,  had  thus  arrested  the  revolution  of 
the  minute  hand. 

"Ah!"  said  I,  "I  see  how  it  is.  This  thing  speaks  for  it 
self.  A  natural  accident,  such  as  will  happen  now  and 
then!" 

I  gave  the  matter  no  further  consideration,  and  at  my 
usual  hour  retired  to  bed.  Here,  having  placed  a  candle 
upon  a  reading  stand  at  the  bed  head,  and  having  made  an 
attempt  to  peruse  some  pages  of  the  Omnipresence  of  the 
Deity,  I  unfortunately  fell  asleep  in  less  than  twenty  sec 
onds,  leaving  the  light  burning  as  it  was. 

My  dreams  were  terrifically  disturbed  by  visions  of  the 
Angel  of  the  Odd.  Methought  he  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
couch,  drew  aside  the  curtains,  and  in  the  hollow,  detestable 
tones  of  a  rum  puncheon,  menaced  me  with  the  bitterest 
vengeance  for  the  contempt  with  which  I  had  treated  him. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  ODD  i  -,, 

He  concluded  a  long  harangue  by  taking  off  his  funnel-cap, 
inserting  the  tube  into  my  gullet,  and  thus  deluging  me  with 
an  ocean  of  Kirschenwasser,  which  he  poured  in  a  contin 
uous  flood,  from  one  of  the  long-necked  bottles  that  stood 
him  instead  of  an  arm.  My  agony  was  at  length  insufferable, 
and  I  awoke  just  in  time  to  perceive  that  a  rat  had  run  off 
with  the  lighted  candle  from  the  stand,  but  not  in  season 
to  prevent  his  making  his  escape  with  it  through  the  hole. 
Very  soon  a  strong,  suffocating  odor  assailed  my  nostrils; 
the  house,  I  clearly  perceived,  was  on  fire.  In  a  few  min 
utes  the  blaze  broke  forth  with  violence,  and  in  an  incredibly 
brief  period  the  entire  building  was  wrapped  in  flames.  All 
egress  from  my  chamber,  except  through  a  window,  was  cut 
off.  The  crowd,  however,  quickly  procured  and  raised  a 
long  ladder.  By  means  of  this  I  was  descending  rapidly, 
and  in  apparent  safety,  when  a  huge  hog,  about  whose 
rotund  stomach,  and  indeed  about  whose  whole  air  and 
physiognomy,  there  was  something  which  reminded  me  of 
the  Angel  of  the  Odd — when  this  hog,  I  say,  which  hitherto 
had  been  quietly  slumbering  in  the  mud,  took  it  suddenly 
into  his  head  that  his  left  shoulder  needed  scratching,  and 
could  find  no  more  convenient  rubbing-post  than  that  af 
forded  by  the  foot  of  the  ladder.  In  an  instant  I  was  pre 
cipitated,  and  had  the  misfortune  to  fracture  my  arm. 

This  accident,  with  the  loss  of  my  insurance,  and  with 
the  more  serious  loss  of  my  hair,  the  whole  of  which  had  been 
singed  off  by  the  fire,  predisposed  me  to  serious  impressions, 
so  that  finally  I  made  up  my  mind  to  take  a  wife.  There 
was  a  rich  widow  disconsolate  for  the  loss  of  her  seventh 
husband,  and  to  her  wounded  spirit  I  offered  the  balm  of  my 
vows.  She  yielded  a  reluctant  consent  to  my  prayers.  1 
knelt  at  her  feet  in  gratitude  and  adoration.  She  blushed 
and  bowed  her  luxuriant  tresses  into  close  contact  with  those 
supplied  me  temporarily  by  Grandjean.  I  know  not  how 
the  entanglement  took  place  but  so  it  was.  I  arose  with  a 
shining  pate,  wigless;  she  in  disdain  and  wrath,  half-buried 
in  alien  hair.  Thus  ended  my  hopes  of  the  widow  by  an 
accident  which  could  not  have  been  anticipated,  to  be  sure* 
but  which  the  natural  sequence  of  events  had  brought  about. 


t4      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

Without  despairing,  however,  I  undertook  the  siege  of  a 
less  implacable  heart.  The  fates  were  again  propitious  for 
a  brief  period ;  but  again  a  trivial  incident  interfered.  Meet 
ing  my  betrothed  in  an  avenue  thronged  with  the  elite  of 
the  city,  I  was  hastening  to  greet  her  with  one  of  my  best 
considered  bows,  when  a  small  particle  of  some  foreign  mat 
ter  lodging  in  the  corner  of  my  eye  rendered  me  for  the 
moment  completely  blind.  Before  I  could  recover  my  sight, 
the  lady  of  my  love  had  disappeared — irreparably  affronted 
at  what  she  chose  to  consider  my  premeditated  rudeness  in 
passing  her  by  ungreeted.  While  I  stood  bewildered  at  the 
suddenness  of  this  accident  (which  might  have  happened, 
nevertheless,  to  any  one  under  the  sun),  and  while  I  still 
continued  incapable  of  sight,  I  was  accosted  by  the  Angel 
of  the  Odd,  who  proffered  me  his  aid  with  a  civility  which 
I  had  no  reason  to  expect.  He  examined  my  disordered  eye 
with  much  gentleness  and  skill,  informed  me  that  I  had  a 
drop  in  it,  and  (whatever  a  "drop"  was)  took  it  out,  and 
afforded  me  relief. 

I  now  considered  it  high  time  to  die  (since  fortune  had 
so  determined  to  persecute  me),  and  accordingly  made  my 
way  to  the  nearest  river.  Here,  divesting  myself  of  my 
clothes  (for  there  is  no  reason  why  we  cannot  die  as  we  were 
born),  I  threw  myself  headlong  into  the  current;  the  sole 
witness  of  my  fate  being  a  solitary  crow  that  had  been  se 
duced  into  the  eating  of  brandy-saturated  corn,  and  so 
had  staggered  away  from  his  fellows.  No  sooner  had  I 
entered  the  water  than  this  bird  took  it  into  his  head  to  fly 
away  with  the  most  indispensable  portion  of  my  apparel. 
Postponing,  therefore,  for  the  present,  my  suicidal  design, 
I  just  slipped  my  nether  extremities  into  the  sleeves  of  my 
coat,  and  betook  myself  to  a  pursuit  of  the  felon  with  all 
the  nimbleness  which  the  case  required  and  its  circumstances 
would  admit.  But  my  evil  destiny  attended  me  still.  As  I 
ran  at  full  speed,  with  my  nose  up  in  the  atmosphere,  and 
intent  only  upon  the  purloiner  of  my  property,  I  suddenly 
perceived  that  my  feet  rested  no  longer  upon  terra  firma; 
the  fact  is,  I  had  thrown  myself  over  a  precipice,  and  should 
inevitably  have  been  dashed  to  pieces  but  for  my  good 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  ODD  15 

fortune  in  grasping  the  end  of  a  long  guide-rope,   which 
depended  from  a  passing  balloon. 

As  soon  as  I  sufficiently  recovered  my  senses  to  compre 
hend  the  terrific  predicament  in  which  I  stood,  or  rather 
hung,  I  exerted  all  the  power  of  my  lungs  to  make  that 
predicament  known  to  the  aeronaut  overhead.  But  for  a 
long  time  I  exerted  myself  in  vain.  Either  the  fool  could 
not,  or  the  villain  would  not  perceive  me.  Meanwhile  the 
machine  rapidly  soared,  while  my  strength  even  more  rap 
idly  failed.  I  was  soon  upon  the  point  of  resigning  myself 
to  my  fate,  and  dropping  quietly  into  the  sea,  when  my 
spirits  were  suddenly  revived  by  hearing  a  hollow  voice  from 
above,  which  seemed  to  be  lazily  humming  an  opera  air. 
Looking  up,  I  perceived  the  Angel  of  the  Odd.  He  was 
leaning,  with  his  arms  folded,  over  the  rim  of  the  car;  and 
with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  at  which  he  puffed  leisurely,  seemed 
to  be  upon  excellent  terms  with  himself  and  the  universe 
I  was  too  much  exhausted  to  speak,  so  I  merely  regarded 
him  with  an  imploring  air. 

For  several  minutes,  although  he  looked  me  full  in  the 
face,  he  said  nothing.  At  length,  removing  carefully  his 
meerschaum  from  the  right  to  the  left  comer  of  his  mouth, 
he  condescended  to  speak. 

"Who  pe  you,"  he  asked,  "und  what  der  teuffel  you  pe 
do  dare?" 

To  this  piece  of  impudence,  cruelty,  and  affectation,  I 
could  reply  only  by  ejaculating  the  monosyllable  "Help!" 

"Elp!"  echoed  the  ruffian,  "not  I.  Dare  iz  te  pottle— 
elp  yourself,  und  pe  tam'd!" 

With  these  words  he  let  fall  a  heavy  bottle  of  Kirschen- 
wasser,  which,  dropping  precisely  upon  the  crown  of  my 
head,  caused  me  to  imagine  that  my  brains  were  entirely 
knocked  out.  Impressed  with  this  idea  I  was  about  to  relin 
quish  my  hold  and  give  up  the  ghost  with  a  good  grace, 
when  I  was  arrested  by  the  cry  of  the  Angel,  who  bade  me 
hold  on. 

"  'Old  on!"  he  said:  "don't  pe  in  te  'urry — don't.  Will 
you  pe  take  de  odder  pottle,  or  'ave  you  pe  got  zober  yet, 
and  come  to  your  zenzes?" 


1 6      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

I  made  haste,  hereupon,  to  nod  my  head  twice — once 
in  the  negative,  meaning  thereby  that  I  would  prefer  not 
taking  the  other  bottle  at  present;  and  once  in  the  affirma 
tive,  intending  thus  to  imply  that  I  was  sober  and  had  posi 
tively  come  to  my  senses.  By  these  means  I  somewhat 
softened  the  Angel. 

"Und  you  pelief,  ten,"  he  inquired,  "at  te  last?  You 
pelief,  ten,  in  te  possibility  of  te  odd?" 

I  again  nodded  my  head  in  assent. 

"Und  you  ave  pelief  in  me,  te  Angel  of  te  Odd?" 

I  nodded  again. 

"Und  you  acknowledge  tat  you  pe  te  blind  dronk  und  te 
vool?" 

I  nodded  once  more. 

"Put  your  right  hand  into  your  left  preeches  pocket,  ten, 
in  token  ov  your  vull  zubmizzion  unto  te  Angel  ov  te 
Odd." 

This  thing,  for  very  obvious  reasons,  I  found  it  quite  im 
possible  to  do.  In  the  first  place,  my  left  arm  had  been 
broken  in  my  fall  from  the  ladder,  and  therefore,  had  I  let 
go  my  hold  with  the  right  hand  I  must  have  let  go  altogether. 
In  the  second  place,  I  could  have  no  breeches  until  I  came 
across  the  crow.  I  was  therefore  obliged,  much  to  my  regret, 
to  shake  my  head  in  the  negative,  intending  thus  to  give 
the  Angel  to  understand  that  I  found  it  inconvenient,  just 
at  that  moment,  to  comply  with  his  very  reasonable  demand! 
No  sooner,  however,  had  I  ceased  shaking  my  head  than — 

"Go  to  der  teuffel,  ten!"  roared  the  Angel  of  the  Odd. 

In  pronouncing  these  words  he  drew  a  sharp  knife  across 
the  guide-rope  by  which  I  was  suspended,  and  as  we  then 
happened  to  be  precisely  over  my  own  house  (which,  during 
my  peregrinations,  had  been  handsomely  rebuilt),  it  so  oc 
curred  that  I  tumbled  headlong  down  the  ample  chimney 
and  alit  upon  the  dining-room  hearth. 

Upon  coming  to  my  senses  (for  the  fall  had  very  thor 
oughly  stunned  me)  I  found  it  about  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  I  lay  outstretched  where  I  had  fallen  from  the 
balloon.  My  head  groveled  in  the  ashes  of  an  extinguished 
fire,  while  my  feet  reposed  upon  the  wreck  of  a  small  table. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  ODD  17 

overthrown,  and  amid  the  fragments  of  a  miscellaneous 
dessert,  intermingled  with  a  newspaper,  some  broken 
glasses  and  shattered  bottles,  and  an  empty  jug  of  the 
Schiedam  Kirschenwasser.  Thus  revenged  himself  the 
Angel  of  tne  Odd. 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S 
PROGRESS 

BY  CAROLINE  M.  S.  KIRKLAND  (1801-1864) 

MASTER  WILLIAM  HORNER  came  to  our  village  to 
school  when  he  was  about  eighteen  years  old:  tall, 
lank,  straight-sided,  and  straight-haired,  with  a  mouth 
of  the  most  puckered  and  solemn  kind.  His  figure  and  move 
ments  were  those  of  a  puppet  cut  out  of  shingle  and  jerked  by 
a  string;  and  his  address  corresponded  very  well  with  his 
appearance.  Never  did  that  prim  mouth  give  way  before 
a  laugh.  A  faint  and  misty  smile  was  the  widest  departure 
from  its  propriety,  and  this  unaccustomed  disturbance  made 
wrinkles  in  the  flat,  skinny  cheeks  like  those  in  the  surface 
of  a  lake,  after  the  intrusion  of  a  stone.  Master  Homer 
knew  well  what  belonged  to  the  pedagogical  character,  and 
that  facial  solemnity  stood  hirjh  on  the  list  of  indispensable 
qualifications.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  before  he  left  his 
father's  house  how  he  would  look  during  the  term.  He  had 
hot  planned  any  smiles  (knowing  that  he  must  "board 
round"),  and  it  was  not  for  ordinary  occurrences  to  alter 
his  arrangements;  so  that  when  he  was  betrayed  into  a  relax 
ation  of  the  muscles,  it  was  "in  such  a  sort"  as  if  he  was 
putting  his  bread  and  butter  in  jeopardy. 

Truly  he  had  a  grave  time  that  first  winter.  The  rod  of 
power  was  new  to  him,  and  he  felt  it  his  "duty"  to  use  it 
more  frequently  than  might  have  been  thought  necessary 
by  those  upon  whose  sense  the  privilege  had  palled.  Tears 

From  The  Gift  for  1845,  published  late  in  1844  Republished 
in  the  volume,  Western  Clearings  (1845),  by  Caroline  M.  S. 
Kirkland. 

18 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  PROGRESS  19 

and  sulky  faces,  and  impotent  fists  doubled  fiercely  when  his 
back  was  turned,  were  the  rewards  of  his  conscientiousness; 
and  the  boys — and  girls  too — were  glad  when  working  time 
came  round  again,  and  the  master  went  home  to  help  his 
father  on  the  farm. 

But  with  the  autumn  came  Master  Horner  again,  dropping 
among  us  as  quietly  as  the  faded  leaves,  and  awakening  at 
least  as  much  serious  reflection.  Would  he  be  as  self- 
sacrificing  as  before,  postponing  his  own  ease  and  comfort 
to  the  public  good,  or  would  he  have  become  more  seden 
tary,  and  less  fond  of  circumambulating  the  school-room 
with  a  switch  over  his  shoulder?  Many  were  fain  to  hope 
he  might  have  learned  to  smoke  during  the  summer,  an  ac 
complishment  which  would  probably  have  moderated  his 
energy  not  a  little,  and  disposed  him  rather  to  reverie  than 
to  action.  But  here  he  was,  and  all  the  broader-chested  and 
stouter-armed  for  his  labors  in  the  harvest-field. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  Master  Horner  was  of  a  cruel 
and  ogrish  nature — a  babe-eater — a  Herod — one  who  de 
lighted  in  torturing  the  helpless.  Such  souls  there  may  be. 
among  those  endowed  with  the  awful  control  of  the  feruler 
but  they  are  rare  in  the  fresh  and  natural  regions  we  de 
scribe.  It  is,  we  believe,  where  young  gentlemen  are  to  be 
crammed  for  college,  that  the  process  of  hardening  heart 
and  skin  together  goes  on  most  vigorously.  Yet  among  the 
uneducated  there  is  so  high  a  respect  for  bodily  strength, 
that  it  is  necessary  for  the  schoolmaster  to  show,  first  of 
all,  that  he  possesses  this  inadmissible  requisite  for  his  place. 
The  rest  is  more  readily  taken  for  granted.  Brains  he  may 
have — a  strong  arm  he  must  have:  so  he  proves  the  more 
important  claim  first.  We  must  therefore  make  all  due  al 
lowance  for  Master  Horner,  who  could  not  be  expected  to 
overtop  his  position  so  far  as  to  discern  at  once  the  philos 
ophy  of  teaching. 

He  was  sadly  brow-beaten  during  his  first  term  of  service 
by  a  great  broad-shouldered  lout  of  some  eighteen  years  or 
so,  who  thought  he  needed  a  little  more  "schooling,"  but 
at  the  same  time  felt  quite  competent  to  direct  the  manner 
and  measure  of  his  attempts. 


.o      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"You'd  ought  to  begin  with  large-hand,  Joshuay,"  said 
Master  Horner  to  this  youth. 

"What  should  I  want  coarse-hand  for?"  said  the  disciple, 
with  great  contempt;  "coarse-hand  won't  never  do  me  no 
good.  I  want  a  fine-hand  copy." 

The  master  looked  at  the  infant  giant,  and  did  as  he 
wished,  but  we  say  not  with  what  secret  resolutions. 

At  another  time,  Master  Horner,  having  had  a  hint  from 
some  one  more  knowing  than  himself,  proposed  to  his  elder 
scholars  to  write  after  dictation,  expatiating  at  the  same 
time  quite  floridly  (the  ideas  having  been  supplied  by  the 
knowing  friend),  upon  the  advantages  likely  to  arise  from 
this  practice,  and  saying,  among  other  things, 

"It  will  help  you,  when  you  write  letters,  to  spell  the  words 
good." 

"Pooh!"  said  Joshua,  "spellin'  ain't  nothin';  let  them  that 
finds  the  mistakes  correct  'em.  I'm  for  every  one's  havin'  a 
way  of  their  own." 

"How  dared  you  be  so  saucy  to  the  master?"  asked  one 
of  the  little  boys,  after  school. 

"Because  I  could  lick  him,  easy,"  said  the  hopeful  Joshua, 
who  knew  very  well  why  the  master  did  not  undertake  him 
on  the  spot. 

Can  we  wonder  that  Master  Horner  determined  to  make 
his  empire  good  as  far  as  it  went? 

A  new  examination  was  required  on  the  entrance  into  a 
second  term,  and,  with  whatever  secret  trepidation,  the  mas 
ter  was  obliged  to  submit.  Our  law  prescribes  examinations, 
but  forgets  to  provide  for  the  competency  of  the  examiners; 
so  that  few  better  farces  offer  than  the  course  of  question 
and  answer  on  these  occasions.  We  know  not  precisely  what 
were  Master  Horner's  trials;  but  we  have  heard  of  a  sharp 
dispute  between  the  inspectors  whether  a-n-g-e-1  spelt  angle 
or  angel.  Angle  had  it,  and  the  school  maintained  that 
pronunciation  ever  after.  Master  Horner  passed,  and  he 
was  requested  to  draw  up  the  certificate  for  the  inspectors 
to  sign,  as  one  had  left  his  spectacles  at  home,  and  the  other 
had  a  bad  cold,  so  that  it  was  not  convenient  for  either  to 
write  more  than  his  name.  Master  Horner's  exhibition  of 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  PROGRESS  z* 

learning  on  this  occasion  did  not  reach  us,  but  we 
know  that  it  must  have  been  considerable,  since  he  stood  the 
ordeal. 

"What  is  orthography?"  said  an  inspector  once,  in  our 
presence. 

The  candidate  writhed  a  good  deal,  studied  the  beams 
overhead  and  the  chickens  out  of  the  window,  and  then 
replied, 

"It  is  so  long  since  I  learnt  the  first  part  of  the  spelling- 
book,  that  I  can't  justly  answer  that  question.  But  if  I 
could  just  look  it  over,  I  guess  I  could." 

Our  schoolmaster  entered  upon  his  second  term  with  new 
courage  and  invigorated  authority.  Twice  certified,  who 
should  dare  doubt  his  competency?  Even  Joshua  was  civil, 
and  lesser  louts  of  course  obsequious;  though  the  girls  took 
more  liberties,  for  they  feel  even  at  that  early  age,  that 
influence  is  stronger  than  strength. 

Could  a  young  schoolmaster  think  of  feruling  a  girl  with 
her  hair  in  ringlets  and  a  gold  ring  on  her  finger?  Impos 
sible — and  the  immunity  extended  to  all  the  little  sisters  and 
cousins;  and  there  were  enough  large  girls  to  protect  all  the 
feminine  part  of  the  school.  With  the  boys  Master  Homer 
still  had  many  a  battle,  and  whether  with  a  view  to  this,  or 
as  an  economical  ruse,  he  never  wore  his  coat  in  school, 
saying  it  was  too  warm.  Perhaps  it  was  an  astute  attention 
to  the  prejudices  of  his  employers,  who  love  no  man  that 
does  not  earn  his  living  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow. 
The  shirt-sleeves  gave  the  idea  of  a  manual-labor  school  in 
one  sense  at  least.  It  was  evident  that  the  master 
worked,  and  that  afforded  a  probability  that  the  scholars 
worked  too. 

Master  Horner's  success  was  most  triumphant  that  win 
ter.  A  year's  growth  had  improved  his  outward  man  ex 
ceedingly,  filling  out  the  limbs  so  that  they  did  not  remind 
you  so  forcibly  of  a  young  colt's,  and  supplying  the  cheeks 
with  the  flesh  and  blood  so  necessary  where  mustaches  were 
not  worn.  Experience  had  given  him  a  degree  of  confidence, 
and  confidence  gave  him  power.  In  short,  people  said  the 
master  had  waked  up;  and  so  he  had.  He  actually  set 


22      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

about  reading  for  improvement;  and  although  at  the  end 
of  the  term  he  could  not  quite  make  out  from  his  historical 
studies  which  side  Hannibal  was  on,  yet  this  is  readily  ex 
plained  by  the  fact  that  he  boarded  round,  and  was  obliged 
to  read  generally  by  firelight,  surrounded  by  ungoverned 
children. 

After  this,  Master  Homer  made  his  own  bargain.  When 
schooltime  came  round  with  the  following  autumn,  and  the 
teacher  presented  himself  for  a  third  examination,  such  a 
test  was  pronounced  no  longer  necessary;  and  the  district 
consented  to  engage  him  at  the  astounding  rate  of  sixteen 
dollars  a  month,  with  the  understanding  that  he  was  to  have 
a  fixed  home,  provided  he  was  willing  to  allow  a  dollar  a 
week  for  it.  Master  Horner  bethought  him  of  the  successive 
"killing- times,"  and  consequent  doughnuts  of  the  twenty 
families  in  which  he  had  sojourned  the  years  before,  and  con 
sented  to  the  exaction. 

Behold  our  friend  now  as  high  as  district  teacher  can  ever 
hope  to  be — his  scholarship  established,  his  home  stationary 
and  not  revolving,  and  the  good  behavior  of  the  community 
insured  by  the  fact  that  he,  being  of  age,  had  now  a  farm  to 
retire  upon  in  case  of  any  disgust. 

Master  Horner  was  at  once  the  preeminent  beau  of  the 
neighborhood,  spite  of  the  prejudice  against  learning.  He 
brushed  his  hair  straight  up  in  front,  and  wore  a  sky-blue 
ribbon  for  a  guard  to  his  silver  watch,  and  walked  as  if  the 
tall  heels  of  his  blunt  boots  were  egg-shells  and  not  leather. 
Yet  he  was  far  from  neglecting  the  duties  of  his  place.  He 
was  beau  only  on  Sundays  and  holidays;  very  schoolmaster 
the  rest  of  the  time. 

It  was  at  a  "spelling-school"  that  Master  Horner  first 
met  the  educated  eyes  of  Miss  Harriet  Bangle,  a  young  lady 
visiting  the  Engleharts  in  our  neighborhood.  She  was  from 
one  of  the  towns  in  Western  New  York,  and  had  brought 
with  her  a  variety  of  city  airs  and  graces  somewhat  cari 
catured,  set  off  with  year-old  French  fashions  much  traves 
tied.  Whether  she  had  been  sent  out  to  the  new  country  to 
try,  somewhat  late,  a  rustic  chance  for  an  establishment,  or 
whether  her  company  had  been  found  rather  trying  at  home, 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  PROGRESS  23 

we  cannot  say.  The  view  which  she  was  at  some  pains  to 
make  understood  was,  that  her  friends  had  contrived  this 
method  of  keeping  her  out  of  the  way  of  a  desperate  lover 
whose  addresses  were  not  acceptable  to  them. 

If  it  should  seem  surprising  that  so  high-bred  a  visitor 
should  be  sojourning  in  the  wild  woods,  it  must  be  remem 
bered  that  more  than  one  celebrated  Englishman  and  not  a 
few  distinguished  Americans  have  farmer  brothers  in  the 
western  country,  no  whit  less  rustic  in  their  exterior  and 
manner  of  life  than  the  plainest  of  their  neighbors.  When 
these  are  visited  by  their  refined  kinsfolk,  we  of  the  woods 
catch  glimpses  of  the  gay  world,  or  think  we  do. 

That    great    medicine    hath 
With  its  tinct  gilded — 

many  a  vulgarism  to  the  satisfaction  of  wiser  heads  thaa 
ours. 

Miss  Bangle's  manner  bespoke  for  her  that  high  consider 
ation  which  she  felt  to  be  her  due.  Yet  she  condescended  to 
be  amused  by  the  rustics  and  their  awkward  attempts  at 
gaiety  and  elegance;  and,  to  say  truth,  few  of  the  village 
merry-makings  escaped  her,  though  she  wore  always  the  air 
of  great  superiority. 

The  spelling-school  is  one  of  the  ordinary  winter  amuse 
ments  in  the  country.  It  occurs  once  in  a  fortnight,  or  so, 
and  has  power  to  draw  out  all  the  young  people  for  miles 
round,  arrayed  in  their  best  clothes  and  their  holiday  be 
havior.  When  all  is  ready,  umpires  are  elected,  and  after 
these  have  taken  the  distinguished  place  usually  occupied 
by  the  teacher,  the  young  people  of  the  school  choose  the 
two  best  scholars  to  head  the  opposing  classes.  These  lead 
ers  choose  their  followers  from  the  mass,  each  calling  a  name 
in  turn,  until  all  the  spellers  are  ranked  on  one  side  or  the 
other,  lining  the  sides  of  the  room,  and  all  standing.  The 
schoolmaster,  standing  too,  takes  his  spelling-book,  and  gives 
a  placid  yet  awe-inspiring  look  along  the  ranks,  remarking 
that  he  intends  to  be  very  impartial,  and  that  he  shall  give 
out  nothing  that  is  not  in  the  spelling-book.  For  the  first 


2*      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

half  hour  or  so  he  chooses  common  and  easy  words,  that  the 
spirit  of  the  evening  may  not  be  damped  by  the  too  early 
thinning  of  the  classes.  .When  a  word  is  missed,  the  blun 
derer  has  to  sit  down,  and  be  a  spectator  only  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening.  At  certain  intervals,  some  of  the  best  speak 
ers  mount  the  platform,  and  "speak  a  piece,"  which  is  gen 
erally  as  declamatory  as  possible. 

The  excitement  of  this  scene  is  equal  to  that  afforded  by 
any  city  spectacle  whatever;  and  towards  the  close  of  the 
evening,  when  difficult  and  unusual  words  are  chosen  to  con 
found  the  small  number  who  still  keep  the  floor,  it  becomes 
scarcely  less  than  painful.  When  perhaps  only  one  or  two 
remain  to  be  puzzled,  the  master,  weary  at  last  of  his  task, 
though  a  favorite  one,  tries  by  tricks  to  put  down  those 
whom  he  cannot  overcome  in  fair  fight.  If  among  all  the 
curious,  useless,  unheard-of  words  which  may  be  picked  out 
of  the  spelling-book,  he  cannot  find  one  which  the  scholars 
have  not  noticed,  he  gets  the  last  head  down  by  some  quip 
or  catch.  "Bay"  will  perhaps  be  the  sound;  one  scholar 
spells  it  "bey,"  another,  "bay,"  while  the  master  all  the 
time  means  "ba,"  which  comes  within  the  rule,  being  in  the 
spelling-book. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions,  as  we  have  said,  that 
Miss  Bangle,  having  come  to  the  spelling-school  to  get  ma 
terials  for  a  letter  to  a  female  friend,  first  shone  upon  Mr. 
Horner.  She  was  excessively  amused  by  his  solemn  air  and 
puckered  mouth,  and  set  him  down  at  once  as  fair  game. 
Yet  she  could  not  help  becoming  somewhat  interested  in  the 
spelling-school,  and  after  it  was  over  found  she  had  not 
stored  up  half  as  many  of  the  schoolmaster's  points  as  she 
intended,  for  the  benefit  of  her  correspondent. 

In  the  evening's  contest  a  young  girl  from  some  few  miles' 
distance,  Ellen  Kingsbury,  the  only  child  of  a  substantial 
farmer,  had  been  the  very  last  to  sit  down,  after  a  prolonged 
effort  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Horner  to  puzzle  her,  for  the  credit 
of  his  own  school.  She  blushed,  and  smiled,  and  blushed 
again,  but  spelt  on,  until  Mr.  Homer's  cheeks  were  crimson 
with  excitement  and  some  touch  of  shame  that  he  should  be 
baffled  at  his  own  weapons.  At  length,  either  by  accident  or 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  PROGRESS  25 

design,  Ellen  missed  a  word,  and  sinking  into  her  Mat  was 
numbered  with  the  slain. 

In  the  laugh  and  talk  which  followed  (for  with  tiie  con 
clusion  of  the  spelling,  all  form  of  a  public  assembly  van- 
ishes),  our  schoolmaster  said  so  many  gallant  things  to  his 
fair  enemy,  and  appeared  so  much  animated  by  the  excite 
ment  of  the  contest,  -that  Miss  Bangle  began  to  look  upon 
him  with  rather  more  respect,  and  to  feel  somewhat  indig 
nant  that  a  little  rustic  like  Ellen  should  absorb  the  entire 
attention  of  the  only  beau.  She  put  on,  therefore,  her  most 
gracious  aspect,  and  mingled  in  the  circle ;  caused  the  school 
master  to  be  presented  to  her,  and  did  her  best  to  fascinate 
him  by  certain  airs  and  graces  which  she  had  found  success 
ful  elsewhere.  What  game  is  too  small  for  the  close-woven 
net  of  a  coquette? 

Mr.  Horner  quitted  not  the  fair  Ellen  until  he  had  handed 
her  into  her  father's  sleigh;  and  he  then  wended  his  way 
homewards,  never  thinking  that  he  ought  to  have  escorted 
Miss  Bangle  to  her  uncle's,  though  she  certainly  waited  a 
little  while  for  his  return. 

We  must  not  follow  into  particulars  the  subsequent  inter 
course  of  our  schoolmaster  with  the  civilized  young  lady. 
All  that  concerns  us  is  the  result  of  Miss  Bangle's  benevolent 
designs  upon  his  heart.  She  tried  most  sincerely  to  find  its 
vulnerable  spot,  meaning  no  doubt  to  put  Mr.  Horner  on  his 
guard  for  the  future;  and  she  was  unfeignedly  surprised  to 
discover  that  her  best  efforts  were  of  no  avail.  She  con 
cluded  he  must  have  taken  a  counter-poison,  and  she  was 
not  slow  in  guessing  its  source.  She  had  observed  the  pe 
culiar  fire  which  lighted  up  his  eyes  in  the  presence  of  Ellen 
Kingsbury,  and  she  bethought  her  of  a  plan  which  would 
ensure  her  some  amusement  at  the  expense  of  these  imperti 
nent  rustics,  though  in  a  manner  different  somewhat  from 
her  original  more  natural  idea  of  simple  coquetry. 

A  letter  was  written  to  Master  Horner,  purporting  to  come 
from  Ellen  Kingsbury,  worded  so  artfully  that  the  school 
master  understood  at  once  that  it  was  intended  to  be  a  secret 
communication,  though  its  ostensible  object  was  an  inquiry 
about  some  ordinary  affair.  This  was  laid  in  Mr.  Homer'* 


26      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

desk  before  he  came  to  school,  with  an  intimation  that  he 
might  leave  an  answer  in  a  certain  spot  on  the  following 
morning.  The  bait  took  at  once,  for  Mr.  Horner,  honest 
and  true  himself,  and  much  smitten  with  the  fair  Ellen,  was 
too  happy  to  be  circumspect.  The  answer  was  duly  placed, 
and  as  duly  carried  to  Miss  Bangle  by  her  accomplice,  Joe 
Englehart,  an  unlucky  pickle  who  "was  always  for  ill,  never 
for  good,"  and  who  found  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  the  let 
ter  unwatched,  since  the  master  was  obliged  to  be  in  school 
at  nine,  and  Joe  could  always  linger  a  few  minutes  later. 
This  answer  being  opened  and  laughed  at,  Miss  Bangle  had 
only  to  contrive  a  rejoinder,  which  being  rather  more  par 
ticular  in  its  tone  than  the  original  communication,  led  on 
yet  again  the  happy  schoolmaster,  who  branched  out  into 
sentiment,  "taffeta  phrases,  silken  terms  precise,"  talked  of 
hills  and  dales  and  rivulets,  and  the  pleasures  of  friendship, 
And  concluded  by  entreating  a  continuance  of  the  corre 
spondence. 

Another  letter  and  another,  every  one  more  flattering  and 
encouraging  than  the  last,  almost  turned  the  sober  head  of 
our  poor  master,  and  warmed  up  his  heart  so  effectually  that 
he  could  scarcely  attend  to  his  business.  The  spelling-schools 
were  remembered,  however,  and  Ellen  Kingsbury  made  one 
of  the  merry  company;  but  the  latest  letter  had  not  forgot 
ten  to  caution  Mr.  Horner  not  to  betray  the  intimacy;  so 
that  he  was  in  honor  bound  to  restrict  himself  to  the  lan 
guage  of  the  eyes  hard  as  it  was  to  forbear  the  single  whis 
per  for  which  he  would  have  given  his  very  dictionary.  So 
their  meeting  passed  off  without  the  explanation  which 
Miss  Bangle  began  to  fear  would  cut  short  her  benevolent 
amusement. 

The  correspondence  was  resumed  with  renewed  spirit,  and 
carried  on  until  Miss  Bangle,  though  not  overburdened  with 
sensitiveness,  began  to  be  a  little  alarmed  for  the  conse 
quences  of  her  malicious  pleasantry.  She  perceived  that  she 
herself  had  turned  schoolmistress,  and  that  Master  Horner, 
instead  of  being  merely  her  dupe,  had  become  her  pupil  too; 
for  the  style  of  his  replies  had  been  constantly  improving 
and  the  earnest  and  manly  tone  which  he  assumed  promised 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  PROGRESS  27 

any  thing  but  the  quiet,  sheepish  pocketing  of  injury  and 
insult,  upon  which  she  had  counted.  In  truth,  there  was 
something  deeper  than  vanity  in  the  feelings  with  which  he 
regarded  Ellen  Kingsbury.  The  encouragement  which  he 
supposed  himself  to  have  received,  threw  down  the  barrier 
which  his  extreme  bashfulness  would  have  interposed  be 
tween  himself  and  any  one  who  possessed  charms  enough 
to  attract  him;  and  we  must  excuse  him  if,  in  such  a  case, 
he  did  not  criticise  the  mode  of  encouragement,  but  rather 
grasped  eagerly  the  proffered  good  without  a  scruple,  or  one 
which  he  would  own  to  himself,  as  to  the  propriety  with 
which  it  was  tendered.  He  was  as  much  in  love  as  a  man 
can  be,  and  the  seriousness  of  real  attachment  gave  both 
grace  and  dignity  to  his  once  awkward  diction. 

The  evident  determination  of  Mr.  Horner  to  come  to  the 
point  of  asking  papa  brought  Miss  Bangle  to  a  very  awk 
ward  pass.  She  had  expected  to  return  home  before  mat 
ters  had  proceeded  so  far,  but  being  obliged  to  remain  some 
time  longer,  she  was  equally  afraid  to  go  on  and  to  leave 
off,  a  denouement  being  almost  certain  to  ensue  in  either 
case.  Things  stood  thus  when  it  was  time  to  prepare  for 
the  grand  exhibition  which  was  to  close  the  winter's  term. 

This  is  an  affair  of  too  much  magnitude  to  be  fully  de 
scribed  in  the  small  space  yet  remaining  in  which  to  bring 
out  our  veracious  history.  It  must  be  "slubber'd  o'er  in 
haste" — its  important  preliminaries  left  to  the  cold  imagi 
nation  of  the  reader — its  fine  spirit  perhaps  evaporating  for 
want  of  being  embodied  in  words.  We  can  only  say  that 
our  master,  whose  school-life  was  to  close  with  the  term, 
labored  as  man  never  before  labored  in  such  a  cause,  reso 
lute  to  trail  a  cloud  of  glory  after  him  when  he  left  us.  Not 
q,  candlestick  nor  a  curtain  that  was  attainable,  either  by 
coaxing  or  bribery,  was  left  in  the  village;  even  the  only 
piano,  that  frail  treasure,  was  wiled  away  and  placed  in  one 
corner  of  the  rickety  stage.  The  most  splendid  of  all  the 
pieces  in  the  Columbian  Orator,  the  American  Speaker, 

the but  we  must  not  enumerate — in  a  word,  the  most 

astounding  and  pathetic  specimens  of  eloquence  within  ken 
of  either  teacher  or  scholars,  had  been  selected  for  the  oc- 


28      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

casion;  and  several  young  ladies  and  gentlemen,  •whose 
academical  course  had  been  happily  concluded  at  an  earner 
period,  either  at  our  own  institution  or  at  some  other,  had 
consented  to  lend  themselves  to  the  parts,  and  their  choicest 
decorations  for  the  properties,  of  the  dramatic  portion  of 
the  entertainment. 

Among  these  last  was  pretty  Ellen  Kingsbury,  who  had 
agreed  to  personate  the  Queen  of  Scots,  in  the  garden  scene 
from  Schiller's  tragedy  of  Mary  Stuart;  and  this  circum 
stance  accidentally  afforded  Master  Horner  the  opportunity 
he  had  so  long  desired,  of  seeing  his  fascinating  correspon 
dent  without  the  presence  of  peering  eyes.  A  dress-rehear 
sal  occupied  the  afternoon  before  the  day  of  days,  and  the 
pathetic  expostulations  of  the  lovely  Mary — 

Mine  all  doth  hang — my  life — my  destiny — 
Upon  my  words — upon  the  force  of  tears ! — 

aided  by  the  long  veil,  and  the  emotion  which  sympathy 
brought  into  Ellen's  countenance,  proved  too  much  for  the 
enforced  prudence  of  Master  Horner.  When  the  rehearsal 
was  over,  and  the  heroes  and  heroines  were  to  return  home, 
it  was  found  that,  by  a  stroke  of  witty  invention  not  new  in 
the  country,  the  harness  of  Mr.  Kingsbury's  horses  had 
been  cut  in  several  places,  his  whip  hidden,  his  buffalo-skins 
spread  on  the  ground,  and  the  sleigh  turned  bottom  upwards 
on  them.  This  afforded  an  excuse  for  the  master's  borrow 
ing  a  horse  and  sleigh  of  somebody,  and  claiming  the  privi 
lege  of  taking  Miss  Ellen  home,  while  her  father  returned 
with  only  Aunt  Sally  and  a  great  bag  of  bran  from  the  mil! 
— companions  about  equally  interesting. 

Here,  then,  was  the  golden  opportunity  so  long  wished 
for!  Here  was  the  power  of  ascertaining  at  once  what  is 
never  quite  certain  until  we  have  heard  it  from  warm,  living 
lips,  whose  testimony  is  strengthened  by  glances  in  which 
the  whole  soul  speaks  or — seems  to  speak.  The  time  was 
short,  for  the  sleighing  was  but  too  fine;  and  Father  Kings- 
bury,  having  tied  up  his  harness,  and  collected  his  scattered 
equipment,  was  driving  so  close  behind  that  there  was  no 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  PROGRESS  29 

possibility  of  lingering  for  a  moment.  Yet  many  moments 
were  lost  before  Mr.  Homer,  very  much  in  earnest,  and  all 
unhackneyed  in  matters  of  this  sort,  could  find  a  word  in 
which  to  clothe  his  new-found  feelings.  The  horse  seemed 
to  fly — the  distance  was  half  past — and  at  length,  in  abso 
lute  despair  of  anything  better,  he  blurted  out  at  once  what 
he  had  determined  to  avoid — a  direct  reference  to  the  cor 
respondence. 

A  game  at  cross-purposes  ensued;  exclamations  and  ex 
planations,  and  denials  and  apologies  filled  up  the  time 
which  was  to  have  made  Master  Horner  so  blest.  The  light 
from  Mr.  Kingsbury's  windows  shone  upon  the  path,  and 
the  whole  result  of  this  conference  so  longed  for,  was  a 
burst  of  tears  from  the  perplexed  and  mortified  Ellen,  who 
sprang  from  Mr.  Horner's  attempts  to  detain  her,  rushed 
into  the  house  without  vouchsafing  him  a  word  of  adieu, 
and  left  him  standing,  no  bad  personification  of  Orpheus,, 
after  the  last  hopeless  flitting  of  his  Eurydice. 

"Won't  you  'light,  Master?"  said  Mr.  Kingsbury. 

"Yes — no — thank  you — good  evening,"  stammered  pool 
Master  Horner,  so  stupefied  that  even  Aunt  Sally  called 
him  "a  dummy." 

The  horse  took  the  sleigh  against  the  fence,  going  home, 
and  threw  out  the  master,  who  scarcely  recollected  the  acci 
dent;  while  to  Ellen  the  issue  of  this  unfortunate  driva 
was  a  sleepless  night  and  so  high  a  fever  in  the  morning  that 
our  village  doctor  was  called  to  Mr.  Kingsbury's  before 
breakfast. 

Poor  Master  Horner's  distress  may  hardly  be  imagined. 
Disappointed,  bewildered,  cut  to  the  quick,  yet  as  much  in 
love  as  ever,  he  could  only  in  bitter  silence  turn  over  in  his 
thoughts  the  issue  of  his  cherished  dream;  now  persuading 
himself  that  Ellen's  denial  was  the  effect  of  a  sudden  bash« 
fulness,  now  inveighing  against  the  fickleness  of  the  sex, 
as  all  men  do  when  they  are  angry  with  any  one  woman  in 
particular.  But  his  exhibition  must  go  on  in  spite  of  wretch 
edness;  and  he  went  about  mechanically,  talking  of  c'irtains 
and  candles,  and  music,  and  attitudes,  and  pauses,  and  em 
phasis,  looking  like  a  somnambulist  whose  "eyes  are  open 


30      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

but  their  sense  is  shut,"  and  often  surprising  those  con 
cerned  by  the  utter  unfitness  of  his  answers. 

It  was  almost  evening  when  Mr.  Kingsbury,  having  dis 
covered,  through  the  intervention  of  the  Doctor  and  Aun* 
Sally  the  cause  of  Ellen's  distress,  made  his  appearance  be 
fore  the  unhappy  eyes  of  Master  Horner,  angry,  solemn  and 
determined;  taking  the  schoolmaster  apart,  and  requiring 
an  explanation  of  his  treatment  of  his  daughter.  In  vain  did 
the  perplexed  lover  ask  for  time  to  clear  himself,  declare  his 
respect  for  Miss  Ellen  and  his  willingness  to  give  every  ex 
planation  which  she  might  require;  the  father  was  not  to  be 
put  off ;  and  though  excessively  reluctant,  Mr.  Horner  had  no 
resource  but  to  show  the  letters  which  alone  could  account 
for  his  strange  discourse  to  Ellen.  He  unlocked  his  desk, 
slowly  and  unwillingly,  while  the  old  man's  impatience  was 
such  that  he  could  scarcely  forbear  thrusting  in  his  own 
hand  to  snatch  at  the  papers  which  were  to  explain  this 
vexatious  mystery.  What  could  equal  the  utter  confusion 
of  Master  Horner  and  the  contemptuous  anger  of  the  father, 
when  no  letters  were  to  be  found!  Mr.  Kingsbury  was  too 
passionate  to  listen  to  reason,  or  to  reflect  for  one  moment 
upon  the  irreproachable  good  name  of  the  schoolmaster.  He 
went  away  in  inexorable  wrath;  threatening  every  prac 
ticable  visitation  of  public  and  private  justice  upon  the 
head  of  the  offender,  whom  he  accused  of  having  attempted 
to  trick  his  daughter  into  an  entanglement  which  should 
result  in  his  favor. 

A  doleful  exhibition  was  this  last  one  of  our  thrice- 
approved  and  most  worthy  teacher!  Stern  necessity  and 
the  power  of  habit  enabled  him  to  go  through  with  most  of 
his  part,  but  where  was  the  proud  fire  which  had  lighted  up 
•his  eye  on  similar  occasions  before?  He  sat  as  one  of  three 
judges  before  whom  the  unfortunate  Robert  Emmet  was 
dragged  in  his  shirt- sleeves,  by  two  fierce-looking  officials; 
but  the  chief  judge  looked  far  more  like  a  criminal  than 
did  the  proper  representative.  He  ought  to  have  personated 
Othello,  but  was  obliged  to  excuse  himself  from  raving  for 
"the  handkerchief!  the  handkerchief!"  on  the  rather  anom 
alous  plea  of  a  bad  cold.  Mary  Stuart  being  "i'  the 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  PROGRESS  31 

bond,"  was  anxiously  expected  by  the  impatient  crowd,  and 
it  was  with  distress  amounting  to  agony  that  the  master 
was  obliged  to  announce,  in  person,  the  necessity  of  omitting 
that  part  of  the  representation,  on  account  of  the  illness 
of  one  of  the  young  ladies. 

Scarcely  had  the  words  been  uttered,  and  the  speaker 
hidden  his  burning  face  behind  the  curtain,  when  Mr. 
Kingsbury  started  up  in  his  place  amid  the  throng,  to  give 
a  public  recital  of  his  grievance — no  uncommon  resort  in 
the  new  country.  He  dashed  at  once  to  the  point;  and  be 
fore  some  friends  who  saw  the  utter  impropriety  of  his  pro 
ceeding  could  persuade  him  to  defer  his  vengeance,  he  had 
laid  before  the  assembly — some  three  hundred  people,  per 
haps — his  own  statement  of  the  case.  He  was  got  out  at 
last,  half  coaxed,  half  hustled;  and  the  gentle  public  only 
half  understanding  what  had  been  set  forth  thus  unexpect 
edly,  made  quite  a  pretty  row  of  it.  Some  clamored  loudly 
for  the  conclusion  of  the  exercises;  others  gave  utterances 
in  no  particularly  choice  terms  to  a  variety  of  opinions  as 
to  the  schoolmaster's  proceedings,  varying  the  note  occa 
sionally  by  shouting,  "The  letters!  the  letters!  why  don't 
you  bring  out  the  letters?" 

At  length,  by  means  of  much  rapping  on  the  desk  by  the 
president  of  the  evening,  who  was  fortunately  a  "popular" 
character,  order  was  partially  restored;  and  the  favorite 
scene  from  Miss  More's  dialogue  of  David  and  Goliath  was 
announced  as  the  closing  piece.  The  sight  of  little  David 
in  a  white  tunic  edged  with'  red  tape,  with  a  calico  scrip 
and  a  very  primitive-looking  sling;  and  a  huge  Goliath  dec 
orated  with  a  militia  belt  and  sword,  and  a  spear  like  a 
weaver's  beam  indeed,  enchained  everybody's  attention. 
Even  the  peccant  schoolmaster  and  his  pretended  letters 
were  forgotten,  while  the  sapient  Goliath,  every  time  that 
he  raised  the  spear,  in  the  energy  of  his  declamation,  to 
thump  upon  the  stage,  picked  away  fragments  of  the  low 
ceiling,  which  fell  conspicuously  on  his  great  shock  of  black 
hair.  At  last,  with  the  crowning  threat,  up  went  the  spear 
for  an  astounding  thump,  and  down  came  a  large  piece  of 
xhe  ceiling,  and  with  it — a  shower  of  letters. 


32      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

The  confusion  that  ensued  beggars  all  description.  A 
general  scramble  took  place,  and  in  another  moment  twenty 
pairs  of  eyes,  at  least,  were  feasting  on  the  choice  phrases 
lavished  upon  Mr.  Horner.  Miss  Bangle  had  sat  through 
the  whole  previous  scene,  trembling  for  herself,  although 
she  had,  as  she  supposed,  guarded  cunningly  against  ex 
posure.  She  had  needed  no  prophet  to  tell  her  what  must 
be  the  result  of  a  tete-a-tete  between  Mr.  Horner  and  Ellen; 
and  the  moment  she  saw  them  drive  off  together,  she  in 
duced  her  imp  to  seize  the  opportunity  of  abstracting  the 
whole  parcel  of  letters  from  Mr.  Homer's  desk;  which  he 
did  by  means  of  a  sort  of  skill  which  comes  by  nature  to 
such  goblins;  picking  the  lock  by  the  aid  of  a  crooked  nail, 
as  neatly  as  if  he  had  been  born  within  the  shadow  of  the 
Tombs. 

But  magicians  sometimes  suffer  severely  from  the  malice 
with  which  they  have  themselves  inspired  their  familiars. 
Joe  Englehart  having  been  a  convenient  tool  thus  far, 
thought  it  quite  time  to  torment  Miss  Bangle  a  little;  so, 
having  stolen  the  letters  at  her  bidding,  he  hid  them  on  his 
own  account,  and  no  persuasions  of  hers  could  induce  him  to 
reveal  this  important  secret,  which  he  chose  to  reserve  as  a 
rod  in  case  she  refused  him  some  intercession  with  his  father, 
or  some  other  accommodation,  rendered  necessary  by  his 
mischievous  habits. 

He  had  concealed  the  precious  parcels  in  the  unfloored 
loft  above  the  school-room,  a  place  accessible  only  by  means 
of  a  small  trap-door  without  staircase  or  ladder;  and  here 
he  meant  to  have  kept  them  while  it  suited  his  purposes, 
but  for  the  untimely  intrusion  of  the  weaver's  beam. 

Miss  Bangle  had  sat  through  all,  as  we  have  said,  thinking 
the  letters  safe,  yet  vowing  vengeance  against  her  confed 
erate  for  not  allowing  her  to  secure  them  by  a  satisfactory 
conflagration;  and  it  was  not  until  she  heard  her  own  name 
Whispered  through  the  crowd,  that  she  was  awakened  to  her 
true  situation.  The  sagacity  of  the  low  creatures  whom  she 
had  despised  showed  them  at  once  that  the  letters  must  be 
hers,  since  her  character  had  been  pretty  shrewdly  guessed, 
and  the  handwriting  wore  a  more  practised  air  than  is  usual 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  PROGRESS  33 

among  females  in  the  country.  This  was  first  taken  for 
granted,  and  then  spoken  of  as  an  acknowledged  fact. 

The  assembly  moved  like  the  heavings  of  a  troubled  sea. 
Everybody  felt  that  this  was  everybody's  business.  "Put 
her  out!"  was  heard  from  more  than  one  rough  voice  near 
the  door,  and  this  was  responded  to  by  loud  and  angry  mur 
murs  from  within. 

Mr.  Englehart,  not  waiting  to  inquire  into  the  merits  of 
the  case  in  this  scene  of  confusion,  hastened  to  get  his  family 
out  as  quietly  and  as  quickly  as  possible,  but  groans  and 
hisses  followed  his  niece  as  she  hung  half-fainting  on  his 
arm,  quailing  completely  beneath  the  instinctive  indignation 
of  the  rustic  public.  As  she  passed  out,  a  yell  resounded 
among  the  rude  boys  about  the  door,  and  she  was  lifted 
into  a  sleigh,  insensible  from  terror.  She  disappeared  from 
that  evening,  and  no  one  knew  the  time  of  her  final  de 
parture  for  "the  east." 

Mr.  Kingsbury,  who  is  a  just  man  when  he  is  not  in  a 
passion,  made  all  the  reparation  in  his  power  for  his  harsh 
and  ill-considered  attack  upon  the  master;  and  we  believe 
that  functionary  did  not  show  any  traits  of  implacability  of 
character.  At  least  he  was  seen,  not  many  days  after,  sit 
ting  peaceably  at  tea  with  Mr.  Kingsbury,  Aunt  Sally,  and 
Miss  Ellen;  and  he  has  since  gone  home  to  build  a  house 
upon  his  farm.  And  people  do  say,  that  after  a  few  months 
more,  Ellen  will  not  need  Miss  Bangle's  intervention  if  she 
should  see  fit  to  correspond  with  the  schoolmaster. 


THE  WATKINSON  EVENING 

BY  ELIZA  LESLIE  (1787-1858) 

MRS.  MORLAND,  a  polished  and  accomplished  woman, 
was  the  widow  of  a  distinguished  senator  from 
one  of  the  western  states,  of  which,  also,  her  hus 
band  had  twice  filled  the  office  of  governor.  Her  daugh 
ter  having  completed  her  education  at  the  best  boarding- 
school  in  Philadelphia,  and  her  son  being  about  to  graduate 
at  Princeton,  the  mother  had  planned  with  her  children  a 
tour  to  Niagara  and  the  lakes,  returning  by  way  of  Boston. 
On  leaving  Philadelphia,  Mrs.  Morland  and  the  delighted 
Caroline  stopped  at  Princeton  to  be  present  at  the  annual 
commencement,  and  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  their  beloved 
Edward  receive  his  diploma  as  bachelor  of  arts;  after  hearing 
him  deliver,  with  great  applause,  an  oration  on  the  beauties 
of  the  American  character.  College  youths  are  very  prone  to 
treat  on  subjects  that  imply  great  experience  of  the  world. 
But  Edward  Morland  was  full  of  kind  feeling  for  everything 
and  everybody ;  and  his  views  of  life  had  hitherto  been  tinted 
with  a  perpetual  rose-color. 

Mrs.  Morland,  not  depending  altogether  upon  the  celeb 
rity  of  her  late  husband,  and  wishing  that  her  children 
should  see  specimens  of  the  best  society  in  the  northern 
cities,  had  left  home  with  numerous  letters  of  introduction. 
But  when  they  arrived  at  New  York,  she  found  to  her  great 
regret,  that  having  unpacked  and  taken  out  her  small  travel 
ing  desk,  during  her  short  stay  in  Philadelphia,  she  had 
strangely  left  it  behind  hi  the  closet  of  her  room  at  the 
hotel.  In  this  desk  were  deposited  all  her  letters,  except 
two  which  had  been  offered  to  her  by  friends  in  Philadel 
phia.  The  young  people,  impatient  to  see  the  wonders  of 

From  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  December,  1846. 

34 


THE  WATKINSON  EVENING  3* 

Niagara,  had  entreated  her  to  stay  but  a  day  or  two  in  the 
city  of  New  York,  and  thought  these  two  letters  would  be 
quite  sufficient  for  the  present.  In  the  meantime  she  wrote 
back  to  the  hotel,  requesting  that  the  missing  desk  should 
be  forwarded  to  New  York  as  soon  as  possible. 

On  the  morning  after  their  arrival  at  the  great  com 
mercial  metropolis  of  America,  the  Morland  family  took  a 
carriage  to  ride  round  through  the  principal  parts  of  the 
city,  and  to  deliver  their  two  letters  at  the  houses  to  which 
they  were  addressed,  and  which  were  both  situated  in  the 
region  that  lies  between  the  upper  part  of  Broadway  and 
the  North  River.  In  one  of  the  most  fashionable  streets 
they  found  the  elegant  mansion  of  Mrs.  St.  Leonard;  but 
on  stopping  at  the  door,  were  informed  that  its  mistress 
was  not  at  home.  They  then  left  the  introductory  letter 
(which  they  had  prepared  for  this  mischance,  by  enclosing 
it  in  an  envelope  with  a  card),  and  proceeding  to  another 
street  considerably  farther  up,  they  arrived  at  the  dwelling 
of  the  Watkinson  family,  to  the  mistress  of  which  the  other 
Philadelphia  letter  was  directed.  It  was  one  of  a  large 
block  of  houses  all  exactly  alike,  and  all  shut  up  from  top  to 
bottom,  according  to  a  custom  more  prevalent  in  Nevi 
York  than  in  any  other  city. 

Here  they  were  also  unsuccessful;  the  servant  who  came 
to  the  door  telling  them  that  the  ladies  were  particularly 
engaged  and  could  see  no  company.  So  they  left  their  sec 
ond  letter  and  card  and  drove  off,  continuing  their  ride  till 
they  reached  the  Croton  water  works,  which  they  quitted 
the  carriage  to  see  and  admire.  On  returning  to  the  hotel, 
with  the  intention  after  an  hour  or  two  of  rest  to  go  out 
again,  and  walk  till  near  dinner-time,  they  found  waiting 
them  a  note  from  Mrs.  Watkinson,  expressing  her  regret 
that  she  had  not  been  able  to  see  them  when  they  called; 
and  explaining  that  her  family  duties  always  obliged  her  to 
deny  herself  the  pleasure  of  receiving  morning  visitors,  and 
that  her  servants  had  general  orders  to  that  effect.  But 
she  requested  their  company  for  that  evening  (naming  nine 
o'clock  as  the  hour),  and  particularly  desired  an  immediate 
answer. 


36      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Morland,  "she  intends  asking 
some  of  her  friends  to  meet  us,  in  case  we  accept  the  in 
vitation;  and  therefore  is  naturally  desirous  of  a  reply  as 
soon  as  possible.  Of  course  we  will  not  keep  her  in  sus 
pense.  Mrs.  Denham,  who  volunteered  the  letter,  assured 
me  that  Mrs.  Watkinson  was  one  of  the  most  estimable 
women  in  New  York,  and  a  pattern  to  the  circle  in  which 
she  moved.  It  seems  that  Mr.  Denham  and  Mr.  Watkin 
son  are  connected  in  business.  Shall  we  go?" 

The  young  people  assented,  saying  they  had  no  doubt  of 
passing  a  pleasant  evening. 

The  billet  of  acceptance  having  been  written,  it  was  sent 
off  immediately,  entrusted  to  one  of  the  errand-goers  be 
longing  to  the  hotel,  that  it  might  be  received  in  advance  of 
the  next  hour  for  the  dispatch-post— and  Edward  Morland 
desired  the  man  to  get  into  an  omnibus  with  the  note  that 
no  time  might  be  lost  in  delivering  it.  "It  is  but  right" — • 
said  he  to  his  mother — "that  we  should  give  Mrs.  Watkin 
son  an  ample  opportunity  of  making  her  preparations,  and 
sending  round  to  invite  her  friends." 

"How  considerate  you  are,  dear  Edward" — said  Caro 
line — "always  so  thoughtful  of  every  one's  convenience. 
Your  college  friends  must  have  idolized  you." 

"No" — said  Edward — "they  called  me  a  prig."  Just 
then  a  remarkably  handsome  carriage  drove  up  to  the  pri 
vate  door  of  the  hotel.  From  it  alighted  a  very  elegant 
woman,  who  in  a  few  moments  was  ushered  into  the  draw 
ing-room  by  the  head  waiter,  and  on  his  designating  Mrs. 
Morland's  family,  she  advanced  and  gracefully  announced 
herself  as  Mrs.  St.  Leonard.  This  was  the  lady  at  whose 
house  they  had  left  the  first  letter  of  introduction.  She 
expressed  regret  at  not  having  been  at  home  when  they 
called;  but  said  that  on  finding  their  letter,  she  had  imme 
diately  come  down  to  see  them,  and  to  engage  them  for 
the  evening.  "Tonight" — said  Mrs.  St.  Leonard — "I  ex 
pect  as  many  friends  as  I  can  collect  for  a  summer  party. 
The  occasion  is  the  recent  marriage  of  my  niece,  who  with 
her  husband  has  just  returned  from  their  bridal  excursion, 
and  they  will  be  soon  on  their  way  to  their  residence  in 


THE  WATKINSON  EVENING  '37 

Baltimore.  I  think  I  can  promise  you  an  agreeable  even 
ing,  as  I  expect  some  very  delightful  people,  with  whom  I 
shall  be  most  happy  to  make  you  acquainted." 

Edward  and  Caroline  exchanged  glances,  and  could  not 
refrain  from  looking  wistfully  at  their  mother,  on  whose 
countenace  a  shade  of  regret  was  very  apparent.  After  a 
short  pause  she  replied  to  Mrs.  St.  Leonard — "I  am  truly 
sorry  to  say  that  we  have  just  answered  in  the  affirmative 
a  previous  invitation  for  this  very  evening." 

"I  am  indeed  disappointed" — said  Mrs.  St.  Leonard,  who 
had  been  looking  approvingly  at  the  prepossessing  appear 
ance  of  the  two  young  people.  "Is  there  no  way  in  which 
you  can  revoke  your  compliance  with  this  unfortunate  first 
invitation — at  least,  I  am  sure,  it  is  unfortunate  for  me. 
What  a  vexatious  contretemps  that  I  should  have  chanced 
to  be  out  when  you  called;  thus  missing  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  at  once,  and  securing  that  of  your  society  for 
this  evening?  The  truth  is,  I  was  disappointed  in  some 
of  the  preparations  that  had  been  sent  home  this  morning, 
and  I  had  to  go  myself  and  have  the  things  rectified,  and 
was  detained  away  longer  than  I  expected.  May  I  ask  to 
whom  you  are  engaged  this  evening?  Perhaps  I  know 
the  lady — if  so,  I  should  be  very  much  tempted  to  go  and 
beg  you  from  her." 

"The  lady  is  Mrs.  John  Watkinson" — replied  Mrs.  Mor- 
land — "most  probably  she  will  invite  some  of  her  friends 
to  meet  us." 

"That  of  course" — answered  Mrs.  St.  Leonard — "I  am 
really  very  sorry — and  I  regret  to  say  that  I  do  not  know 
her  at  all." 

"We  shall  have  to  abide  by  our  first  decision,"  said  Mrs. 
Morland.  "By  Mrs.  Watkinson,  mentioning  in  her  note  the 
hour  of  nine,  it  is  to  be  presumed  she  intends  asking  some 
other  company.  I  cannot  possibly  disappoint  her.  I  can 
speak  feelingly  as  to  the  annoyance  (for  I  have  known  it 
by  my  own  experience)  when  after  inviting  a  number  of  my 
friends  to  meet  some  strangers,  the  strangers  have  sent  an 
excuse  almost  at  the  eleventh  hour.  I  think  no  induce 
ments,  however  strong,  could  tempt  me  to  do  so  myself." 


38      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"I  confess  that  you  are  perfectly  right,"  said  Mrs.  St. 
Leonard.  "I  see  you  must  go  to  Mrs.  Watkinson.  But 
can  you  not  divide  the  evening,  by  passing  a  part  of  it 
with  her  and  then  finishing  with  me?" 

At  this  suggestion  the  eyes  of  the  young  people  sparkled, 
for  they  had  become  delighted  with  Mrs.  St.  Leonard,  and 
rmagined  that  a  party  at  her  house  must  be  every 
ivay  charming.  Also,  parties  were  novelties  to  both  of 
them. 

"If  possible  we  will  do  so,"  answered  Mrs.  Morland, 
"and  with  what  pleasure  I  need  not  assure  you.  We  leave 
New  York  to-morrow,  but  we  shall  return  this  way  in  Sep 
tember,  and  will  then  be  exceedingly  happy  to  see  more  of 
Mrs.  St.  Leonard." 

After  a  little  more  conversation  Mrs.  St.  Leonard  took 
her  leave,  repeating  her  hope  of  still  seeing  her  new  friends 
at  her  house  that  night;  and  enjoining  them  to  let  her  know 
as  soon  as  they  returned  to  New  York  on  their  way 
home. 

Edward  Morland  handed  her  to  her  carriage,  and  then 
joined  his  mother  and  sister  in  their  commendations  of  Mrs. 
St.  Leonard,  with  whose  exceeding  beauty  were  united  a 
countenance  beaming  with  intelligence,  and  a  manner  that 
put  every  one  at  their  ease  immediately. 

"She  is  an  evidence,"  said  Edward,  "how  superior  our 
women  of  fashion  are  to  those  of  Europe." 

"Wait,  my  dear  son,"  said  Mrs.  Morland.  "till  you  have 
been  in  Europe,  and  had  an  opportunity  of  forming  an  opin 
ion  on  that  point  (as  on  many  others)  from  actual  obser 
vation.  For  my  part,  I  believe  that  in  all  civilized  countries 
the  upper  classes  of  people  are  very  much  alike,  at  least  in 
their  leading  characteristics." 

"Ah!  here  comes  the  man  that  was  sent  to  Mrs.  Watkin 
son,"  said  Caroline  Morland.  "I  hope  he  could  not  find 
the  house  and  has  brought  the  note  back  with  him.  We 
shall  then  be  able  to  go  at  first  to  Mrs.  St.  Leonard's,  and 
pass  the  whole  evening  there." 

The  man  reported  that  he  had  found  the  house,  and  had 
delivered  the  note  into  Mrs.  Watkinson's  own  hands,  as 


THE  WATKINSON  EVENING  3$ 

she  chanced  to  be  crossing  the  entry  when  the  door  was 
opened;  and  that  she  read  it  immediately,  and  said  "Very 
well." 

"Are  you  certain  that  you  made  no  mistake  in  the  house," 
said  Edward,  "and  that  you  really  did  give  it  to  Mrs.  Wat 
kinson?" 

"And  it's  quite  sure  I  am,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  "when  I 
first  came  over  from  the  ould  country  I  lived  with  them 
awhile,  and  though  when  she  saw  me  to-day,  she  did 
not  let  on  that  she  remembered  my  doing  that  same,  she 
could  not  help  calling  me  James.  Yes,  the  rale  words  she 
said  when  I  handed  her  the  billy-dux  was,  'Very  well, 
James.'  " 

"Come,  come,"  said  Edward,  when  they  found  themselves 
alone,  "let  us  look  on  the  bright  side.  If  we  do  not  find 
a  large  party  at  Mrs.  Watkinson's,  we  may  in  all  proba 
bility  meet  some  very  agreeable  people  there,  and  enjoy  the 
feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul.  We  may  find  the 
Watkinson  house  so  pleasant  as  to  leave  it  with  regret  even 
for  Mrs.  St.  Leonard's." 

"I  do  not  believe  Mrs.  Watkinson  is  in  fashionable  so 
ciety,"  said  Caroline,  "or  Mrs.  St.  Leonard  would  have 
known  her.  I  heard  some  of  the  ladies  here  talking  last 
evening  of  Mrs.  St.  Leonard,  and  I  found  from  what  they 
said  that  she  is  among  the  elite  of  the  elite." 

"Even  if  she  is,"  observed  Mrs.  Morland,  "are  polish  of 
manners  and  cultivation  of  mind  confined  exclusively  to 
persons  of  that  class?" 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Edward,  "the  most  talented  and  re 
fined  youth  at  our  college,  and  he  in  whose  society  I  found 
the  greatest  pleasure,  was  the  son  of  a  bricklayer." 

In  the  ladies'  drawing-room,  after  dinner,  the  Morlands 
heard  a  conversation  between  several  of  the  female  guests, 
who  all  seemed  to  know  Mrs.  St.  Leonard  very  well  by 
reputation,  and  they  talked  of  her  party  that  was  to  "come 
off"  on  this  evening. 

"I  hear,"  said  one  lady,  "that  Mrs.  St.  Leonard  is  to 
have  an  unusual  number  of  lions." 

She  then  proceeded  to  name  a  gallant  general,  with  his 


40      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

elegant  wife  and  accomplished  daughter;  a  celebrated  com 
mander  in  the  navy;  two  highly  distinguished  members  of 
Congress,  and  even  an  ex-president.  Also  several  of  the 
most  eminent  among  the  American  literati,  and  two  first- 
rate  artists. 

Edward  Morland  felt  as  if  he  could  say,  "Had  I  three 
ears  I'd  hear  thee." 

"Such  a  woman  as  Mrs.  St.  Leonard  can  always  com 
mand  the  best  lions  that  are  to  be  found,"  observed  another 
lady. 

"And  then,"  said  a  third,  "I  have  been  told  that  she  has 
such  exquisite  taste  in  lighting  and  embellishing  her  always 
elegant  rooms.  And  her  supper  table,  whether  for  summer 
or  winter  parties,  is  so  beautifully  arranged;  all  the  viands 
are  so  delicious,  and  the  attendance  of  the  servants  so  per 
fect — and  Mrs.  St.  Leonard  does  the  honors  with  so  much 
ease  and  tact." 

"Some  friends  of  mine  that  visit  her,"  said  a  fourth  lady, 
"describe  her  parties  as  absolute  perfection.  She  always 
manages  to  bring  together  those  persons  that  are  best  fitted 
to  enjoy  each  other's  conversation.  Still  no  one  is  over 
looked  or  neglected.  Then  everything  at  her  reunions  is 
so  well  proportioned — she  has  just  enough  of  music,  and 
just  enough  of  whatever  amusement  may  add  to  the  pleas 
ure  of  her  guests;  and  still  there  is  no  appearance  of  design 
or  management  on  her  part." 

"And  better  than  all,"  said  the  lady  who  haJ  spoken  first, 
"Mrs.  St.  Leonard  is  one  of  the  kindest,  most  generous,  and 
most  benevolent  of  women — she  does  good  in  every  possible 
way." 

"I  can  listen  no  longer,"  said  Caroline  to  Edward,  rising 
to  change  her  seat.  "If  I  hear  any  more  I  shall  absolutely 
hate  the  Watkinsons.  How  provoking  that  they  should 
have  sent  us  the  first  invitation.  If  we  had  only  thought 
of  waiting  till  we  could  hear  from  Mrs.  St.  Leonard!" 

"For  shame,  Caroline,"  said  her  brother,  "how  can  you 
talk  so  of  persons  you  have  never  seen,  and  to  whom  you 
ought  to  feel  grateful  for  the  kindness  of  their  invitation; 
even  if  it  has  interfered  with  another  party,  that  I  must 


THE  WATKINSON  EVENING  41 

confess  seems  to  offer  unusual  attractions.  Now  I  have  a 
presentiment  that  we  shall  find  the  Watkinson  part  of  the 
evening  very  enjoyable." 

As  soon  as  tea  was  over,  Mrs.  Morland  and  her  daughter 
repaired  to  their  toilettes.  Fortunately,  fashion  as  well  as 
good  taste,  has  decided  that,  at  a  summer  party,  the  cos 
tume  of  the  ladies  should  never  go  beyond  an  elegant  sim 
plicity.  Therefore  our  two  ladies  in  preparing  for  their  in 
tended  appearance  at  Mrs.  St.  Leonard's,  were  enabled  to 
attire  themselves  in  a  manner  that  would  not  seem  out  of 
place  in  the  smaller  company  they  expected  to  meet  at  the 
Watkinsons.  Over  an  under-dress  of  lawn,  Caroline  Mor 
land  put  on  a  white  organdy  trimmed  with  lace,  and  dec 
orated  with  bows  of  pink  ribbon.  At  the  back  of  her  head 
was  a  wreath  of  fresh  and  beautiful  pink  flowers,  tied  with 
a  similar  ribbon.  Mrs.  Morland  wore  a  black  grenadine 
over  a  satin,  and  a  lace  cap  trimmed  with  White. 

It  was  but  a  quarter  past  nine  o'clock  when  their  car 
riage  stopped  at  the  Watkinson  door.  The  front  of  the 
house  looked  very  dark.  Not  a  ray  gleamed  through  the 
Venetian  shutters,  and  the  glimmer  beyond  the  fan-light 
over  the  door  was  almost  imperceptible.  After  the  coach 
man  had  rung  several  times,  an  Irish  girl  opened  the  door, 
cautiously  (as  Irish  girls  always  do),  and  admitted  them 
into  the  entry,  where  one  light  only  was  burning  in  a  branch 
lamp.  "Shall  we  go  upstairs?"  said  Mrs.  Morland.  "And 
what  for  would  ye  go  upstairs?"  said  the  girl  in  a  pert 
tone.  "It's  all  dark  there,  and  there's  no  preparations.  Ye 
can  lave  your  things  here  a-hanging  on  the  rack.  It  is  a 
party  ye're  expecting?  Blessed  are  them  what  expects  noth 
ing." 

The  sanguine  Edward  Morland  looked  rather  blank  at 
this  intelligence,  and  his  sister  whispered  to  him,  "Well  get 
off  to  Mrs.  St.  Leonard's  as  soon  as  we  possibly  can.  When 
did  you  tell  the  coachman  to  come  for  us?" 

"At  half  past  ten,"  was  the  brother's  reply. 

"Oh!  Edward,  Edward!"  she  exclaimed,  "And  I  dare 
say  he  will  not  be  punctual.  He  may  keep  us  here  till 
eleven." 


42      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"Courage,  mes  enfants,"  said  their  mother,  "et  parlez  plus 
doucement" 

The  girl  then  ushered  them  into  the  back  parlor,  saying, 
"Here's  the  company." 

The  room  was  large  and  gloomy.  A  checquered  mat  cov 
ered  the  floor,  and  all  the  furniture  was  encased  in  striped 
calico  covers,  and  the  lamps,  mirrors,  etc,,  concealed  under 
green  gauze.  The  front  parlor  was  entirely  dark,  and  in 
the  back  apartment  was  no  other  light  than  a  shaded  lamp 
on  a  large  centre  table,  round  which  was  assembled  a  circle 
of  children  of  all  sizes  and  ages.  On  a  backless,  cushionless 
sofa  sat  Mrs.  Watkinson,  and  a  young  lady,  whom  she  in 
troduced  as  her  daughter  Jane.  And  Mrs.  Morland  in  re 
turn  presented  Edward  and  Caroline. 

"Will  you  take  the  rocking-chair,  ma'am?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Watkinson. 

Mrs.  Morland  declining  the  offer,  the  hostess  took  it  her 
self,  and  see-sawed  on  it  nearly  the  whole  time.  It  was 
3,  very  awkward,  high-legged,  crouch-backed  rocking-chair, 
and  shamefully  unprovided  with  anything  in  the  form  of  a 
footstool. 

"My  husband  is  away,  at  Boston,  on  business,"  said  Mrs. 
Watkinson.  "I  thought  at  first,  ma'am,  I  should  not  be  able 
to  ask  you  here  this  evening,  for  it  is  not  our  way  to  have 
company  in  his  absence;  but  my  daughter  Jane  over-per 
suaded  me  to  send  for  you." 

"What  a  pity,"  thought  Caroline. 

"You  must  take  us  as  you  find  us,  ma'am,"  continued 
Mrs.  Watkinson.  "We  use  no  ceremony  with  anybody;  and 
our  rule  is  never  to  put  ourselves  out  of  the  way.  We  do 
not  give  parties  [looking  at  the  dresses  of  the  ladies].  Our 
first  duty  is  to  our  children,  and  we  cannot  waste  our  sub 
stance  on  fashion  and  folly.  They'll  have  cause  to  thank 
us  for  it  when  we  die." 

Something  like  a  sob  was  heard  from  the  centre  table, 
at  which  the  children  were  sitting,  and  a  boy  was  seen  to 
hold  his  handkerchief  to  his  face. 

"Joseph,  my  child,"  said  his  mother,  "do  not  cry.  You 
have  no  idea,  ma'am,  what  an  extraordinary  boy  that  is. 


THE  WATKINSON  EVENING  43 

You  see  how  the  bare  mention  of  such  a  thing  as  our  deaths 
has  overcome  him." 

There  was  another  sob  behind  the  handkerchief,  and  the 
Morlands  thought  it  now  sounded  very  much  like  a  smoth 
ered  laugh. 

"As  I  was  saying,  ma'am,"  continued  Mrs.  Watkinson, 
"we  never  give  parties.  We  leave  all  sinful  things  to  tihe 
vain  and  foolish.  My  daughter  Jane  has  been  telling  me, 
that  she  heard  this  morning  of  a  party  that  is  going  on  to 
night  at  the  widow  St.  Leonard's.  It  is  only  fifteen  years 
since  her  husband  died.  He  was  carried  off  with  a  three 
days'  illness,  but  two  months  after  they  were  married.  I 
have  had  a  domestic  that  lived  with  them  at  the  time,  so  I 
know  all  about  it.  And  there  she  is  now,  living  in  an  ele 
gant  house,  and  riding  in  her  carriage,  and  dressing  and 
dashing,  and  giving  parties,  and  enjoying  life,  as  she  calls  it. 
Poor  creature,  how  I  pity  her!  Thank  heaven,  nobody  that 
I  know  goes  to  her  parties.  If  they  did  I  would  never  wish 
to  see  them  again  in  my  house.  It  is  an  encouragement 
to  folly  and  nonsense — and  folly  and  nonsense  are  sinful. 
Do  not  you  think  so,  ma'am?" 

"If  carried  too  lar  they  may  certainly  become  so,"  replied 
Mrs.  Morland. 

"We  have  heard,"  said  Edward,  "that  Mrs.  St.  Leonard, 
though  one  of  the  ornaments  of  the  gay  world,  has  a  kind 
heart,  a  beneficent  spirit  and  a  liberal  hand." 

"I  know  very  little  about  her,"  replied  Mrs.  Watkinson, 
drawing  up  her  head,  "and  I  have  not  the  least  desire  to 
know  any  more.  It  is  well  she  has  no  children;  they'd  be 
lost  sheep  if  brought  up  in  her  fold.  For  my  part,  ma'am," 
she  continued,  turning  to  Mrs.  Morland,  "I  am  quite  satis 
fied  with  the  quiet  joys  of  a  happy  home.  And  no  mother 
has  the  least  business  with  any  other  pleasures.  My  in 
nocent  babes  know  nothing  about  plays,  and  balls,  and 
parties;  and  they  never  shall.  Do  they  look  as  if  they  had 
been  accustomed  to  a  life  of  pleasure?" 

They  certainly  did  not!  for  when  the  Morlands  took  a 
glance  at  them,  they  thought  they  had  never  seen  youthful 
faces  that  were  less  gay,  and  indeed  less  prepossessing, 


44      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

There  was  not  a  good  feature  or  a  pleasant  expression  among 
them  all.  Edward  Morland  recollected  his  having  often 
read  "that  childhood  is  always  lovely."  But  he  saw  that 
the  juvenile  Watkinsons  were  an  exception  to  the  rule. 

"The  first  duty  of  a  mother  is  to  her  children,"  repeated 
Mrs.  Watkinson.  "Till  nine  o'clock,  my  daughter  Jane  and 
myself  are  occupied  every  evening  in  hearing  the  lessons 
that  they  have  learned  for  to-morrow's  school.  Before  that 
hour  we  can  receive  no  visitors,  and  we  never  have  company 
to  tea,  as  that  would  interfere  too  much  with  our  duties. 
We  had  just  finished  hearing  these  lessons  when  you  ar 
rived.  Afterwards  the  children  are  permitted  to  indulge 
themselves  in  rational  play,  for  I  permit  no  amusement  that 
is  not  also  instructive.  My  children  are  so  well  trained, 
that  even  when  alone  their  sports  are  always  serious." 

Two  of  the  boys  glanced  slyly  at  each  other,  with  what 
Edward  Morland  comprehended  as  an  expression  of  pitch- 
penny  and  marbles. 

"They  are  now  engaged  at  their  game  of  astronomy,"  con 
tinued  Mrs.  Watkinson.  "They  have  also  a  sort  of  geog 
raphy  cards,  and  a  set  of  mathematical  cards.  It  is  a 
blessed  discovery,  the  invention  of  these  educationary 
games;  so  that  even  the  play-time  of  children  can  be  turned 
to  account.  And  you  have  no  idea,  ma'am,  how  they  enjoy 
them." 

Just  then  the  boy  Joseph  rose  from  the  table,  and  stalk 
ing  up  to  Mrs.  Watkinson,  said  to  her,  "Mamma,  please 
to  whip  me." 

At  this  unusual  request  the  visitors  looked  much  amazed, 
and  Mrs.  Watkinson  replied  to  him,  "Whip  you,  my  best 
Joseph — for  what  cause?  I  have  not  seen  you  do  anything 
wrong  this  evening,  and  you  know  my  anxiety  induces  me 
to  watch  my  children  all  the  time." 

"You  could  not  see  me,"  answered  Joseph,  "for  I  have 
not  done  anything  very  wrong.  But  I  have  had  a  bad 
thought,  and  you  know  Mr.  Ironrule  says  that  a  fault 
imagined  is  just  as  wicked  as  a  fault  committed." 

"You  see,  ma'am,  what  a  good  memory  he  has,"  said  Mrs. 
Watkinson  aside  to  Mrs.  Morland.  "But  my  best  Joseph, 


THE  WATKINSON  EVENING  45 

you  make  your  mother  tremble.  What  fault  have  you 
imagined?  What  was  your  bad  thought?" 

"Ay,"  said  another  boy,  "what's  your  thought  like?" 

"My  thought,"  said  Joseph,  "was  'Confound  all  astron 
omy,  and  I  could  see  the  man  hanged  that  made  this 
game.'  " 

"Oh!  my  child,"  exclaimed  the  mother,  stopping  her  ears> 
"I  am  indeed  shocked.  I  am  glad  you  repented  so  imme 
diately." 

"Yes,"  returned  Joseph,  "but  I  am  afraid  my  repentance 
won't  last.  If  I  am  not  whipped,  I  may  have  these  bad 
thoughts  whenever  I  play  at  astronomy,  and  worse  still  at 
the  geography  game.  Whip  me,  ma,  and  punish  me  as  I 
deserve.  There's  the  rattan  in  the  corner:  I'll  bring  it  to 
you  myself." 

"Excellent  boy!"  said  his  mother.  "You  know  I  always 
pardon  my  children  when  they  are  so  candid  as  to  confess 
their  faults." 

"So  you  do,"  said  Joseph,  "but  a  whipping  will  cure  me 
better." 

"I  cannot  resolve  to  punish  so  conscientious  a  child,"  said 
Mrs.  Watkinson. 

"Shall  I  take  the  trouble  off  your  hands?"  inquired  Ed 
ward,  losing  all  patience  in  his  disgust  at  the  sanctimonious 
hypocrisy  of  this  young  Blifil.  "It  is  such  a  rarity  for  a 
boy  to  request  a  whipping,  that  so  remarkable  a  desire 
ought  by  all  means  to  be  gratified." 

Joseph  turned  round  and  made  a  face  at  him. 

"Give  me  the  rattan,"  said  Edward,  half  laughing,  and 
offering  to  take  it  out  of  his  hand.  "I'll  use  it  to  your  full 
satisfaction." 

The  boy  thought  it  most  prudent  to  stride  off  and  return 
to  the  table,  and  ensconce  himself  among  his  brothers  and 
sisters;  some  of  whom  were  staring  with  stupid  surprise; 
others  were  whispering  and  giggling  in  the  hope  of  seeing 
Joseph  get  a  real  flogging. 

Mrs.  Watkinson  having  bestowed  a  bitter  look  on  Ed 
ward,  hastened  to  turn  the  attention  of  his  mother  to  some 
thing  else.  "Mrs.  Morland,"  said  she,  "allow  me  to  intro- 


46      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

duce  you  to  my  youngest  hope."  She  pointed  to  a  sleepy 
boy  about  five  years  old,  who  with  head  thrown  back  and 
mouth  wide  open,  was  slumbering  in  his  chair. 

Mrs.  Watkinson's  children  were  of  that  uncomfortable 
species  who  never  go  to  bed;  at  least  never  without  all  man 
ner  of  resistance.  All  her  boasted  authority  was  inadequate 
to  compel  them;  they  never  would  confess  themselves  sleepy; 
always  wanted  to  "sit  up,"  and  there  was  a  nightly 
scene  of  scolding,  coaxing,  threatening  and  manoeuvring  to 
get  them  off. 

"I  declare,"  said  Mrs.  Watkinson,  "dear  Benny  is  almost 
asleep.  Shake  him  up,  Christopher.  I  want  him  to  speak 
a  speech.  His  school-mistress  takes  great  pains  in  teaching 
her  little  pupils  to  speak,  and  stands  up  herself  and  shows 
tlhem  how." 

The  child  having  been  shaken  up  hard  (two  or  three 
others  helping  Christopher),  rubbed  his  eyes  and  began  to 
whine.  His  mother  went  to  him,  took  him  on  her  lap, 
hushed  him  up,  and  began  to  coax  him.  This  done,  she 
stood  him  on  his  feet  before  Mrs.  Morland,  and  desired  him 
to  speak  a  speech  for  the  company.  The  child  put  his 
thumb  into  his  mouth,  and  remained  silent. 

"Ma,"  said  Jane  Watkinson,  "you  had  better  tell  him 
what  speech  to  speak." 

"Speak  Cato  or  Plato,"  said  his  mother.  "Which  do  you 
call  it?  Come  now,  Benny — how  does  it  begin?  'You  are 
quite  right  and  reasonable,  Plato.'  That's  it." 

"Speak  Lucius,"  said  his  sister  Jane.  "Come  now,  Benny 
— say  'your  thoughts  are  turned  on  peace.' " 

The  little  boy  looked  very  much  as  if  they  were  not,  and 
as  if  meditating  an  outbreak. 

"No,  no!"  exclaimed  Christopher,  "let  him  say  Hamlet. 
Come  now,  Benny — 'To  be  or  not  to  be.'  " 

"It  ain't  to  be  at  all,"  cried  Benny,  "and  I  won't  speak 
the  least  bit  of  it  for  any  of  you.  I  hate  that  speech!" 

"Only  see  his  obstinacy,"  said  the  solemn  Joseph.  "And 
is  he  to  be  given  up  to?" 

"Speak  anything,  Benny,"  said  Mrs.  Watkinson,  "any 
thing  so  that  it  is  only  a  speech." 


THE  WATKINSON  EVENING  47 

All  the  Watkinson  voices  now  began  to  clamor  violentl> 
at  the  obstinate  child — "Speak  a  speech!  speak  a  speech! 
speak  a  speech!"  But  they  had  no  more  effect  than  the 
reiterated  exhortations  with  which  nurses  confuse  the  poor 
heads  of  babies,  when  they  require  them  to  "shake  a  day- 
day — shake  a  day-day!" 

Mrs.  Morland  now  interfered,  and  begged  that  the  sleepy 
little  boy  might  be  excused;  on  which  he  screamed  out  that 
"he  wasn't  sleepy  at  all,  and  would  not  go  to  bed  ever." 

"I  never  knew  any  of  my  children  behave  so  before,"  said 
Mrs.  Watkinson.  "They  are  always  models  of  obedience, 
ma'am.  A  look  is  sufficient  for  them.  And  I  must  say 
that  they  have  in  every  way  profited  by  the  education  we 
are  giving  them.  It  is  not  our  way,  ma'am,  to  waste  our 
money  in  parties  and  fooleries,  and  fine  furniture  and  fine 
clothes,  'and  rich  food,  and  all  such  abominations.  Our  first 
duty  is  to  our  children,  and  to  make  them  learn  everything 
that  is  taught  in  the  schools.  If  they  go  wrong,  it  will  not 
be  for  want  of  education.  Hester,  my  dear,  come  and  talk 
to  Miss  Morland  in  French." 

Hester  (unlike  her  little  brother  that  would  not  speak  a 
speech)  stepped  boldly  forward,  and  addressed  Caroline 
Morland  with:  "Parlez-vous  Fran$ais,  mademoiselle?  Com 
ment  se  va  madame  votre  mere?  Aimez-vous  la  musique? 
Aimez-vous  la  danse?  Bon  jour — bon  soir — bon  repos. 
Comprenez-vous?" 

To  this  tirade,  uttered  with  great  volubility,  Miss  Mor 
land  made  no  other  reply  than,  "Out — je  comprens." 

"Very  well,  Hester — very  well  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Wat 
kinson.  "You  see,  ma'am,"  turning  to  Mrs.  Morland,  "how 
very  fluent  she  is  in  French;  and  she  has  only  been  learning 
eleven  quarters." 

After  considerable  whispering  between  Jane  and  her 
mother,  the  former  withdrew,  and  sent  in  by  the  Irish  girl  a 
waiter  with  a  basket  of  soda  biscuit,  a  pitcher  of  water,  and 
some  glasses.  Mrs.  Watkinson  invited  her  guests  to  con 
sider  themselves  at  home  and  help  themselves  freely,  saying: 
"We  never  let  cakes,  sweetmeats,  confectionery,  or  any  such 
things  enter  the  house,  as  they  would  be  very  unwholesome 


48      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

for  the  children,  and  it  would  be  sinful  to  put  temptation 
in  their  way.  I  am  sure,  ma'am,  you  will  agree  with  me 
that  the  plainest  food  is  the  best  for  everybody.  People 
that  want  nice  things  may  go  to  parties  for  them;  but  they 
will  never  get  any  with  me." 

When  the  collation  was  over,  and  every  child  provided 
with  a  biscuit,  Mrs.  Watkinson  said  to  Mrs.  Morland:  "Now, 
ma'am,  you  shall  have  some  music  from  my  daughter  Jane, 
who  is  one  of  Mr.  Bangwhanger's  best  scholars." 

Jane  Watkinson  sat  down  to  the  piano  and  commenced  a 
powerful  piece  of  six  mortal  pages,  which  she  played  out 
of  time  and  out  of  tune;  but  with  tremendous  force  of  hands; 
notwithstanding  which,  it  had,  however,  the  good  effect  of 
putting  most  of  the  children  to  sleep. 

To  the  Morlands  the  evening  had  seemed  already  five 
hours  long.  Still  it  was  only  half  past  ten  when  Jane  was 
in  the  midst  of  her  piece.  Ttie  guests  had  all  tacitly  deter 
mined  that  it  would  be  best  not  to  let  Mrs.  Watkinson  know 
their  intention  to  go  directly  from  her  house  to  Mrs.  St. 
Leonard's  party;  and  the  arrival  of  their  carriage  would 
have  been  the  signal  of  departure,  even  if  Jane's  piece  had 
not  reached  its  termination.  They  stole  glances  at  the  clock 
on  the  mantel.  It  wanted  but  a  quarter  of  eleven,  when 
Jane  rose  from  the  piano,  and  was  congratulated  by  her 
mother  on  the  excellence  of  her  music.  Still  no  carriage  was 
heard  to  stop;  no  doorbell  was  heard  to  ring.  Mrs.  Morland 
expressed  her  fears  that  the  coachman  had  forgotten  to  come 
for  them. 

"Has  he  been  paid  for  bringing  you  here?"  asked  Mrs. 
Watkinson. 

"I  paid  him  when  we  came  to  the  door,"  said  Edward. 
"I  thought  perhaps  he  might  want  the  money  for  some  pur 
pose  before  he  came  for  us." 

"That  was  very  kind  in  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs,  Watkinson, 
"but  not  very  wise.  There's  no  dependence  on  any  coach 
man;  and  perhaps  as  he  may  be  sure  of  business  enough 
this  rainy  night,  he  may  never  come  at  all — being  already 
paid  for  bringing  you  here." 

Now,  the  truth  was  'that  the  coachman  had  come  at  the 


THE  WATKINSON  EVENING  49 

appointed  time,  but  the  noise  of  Jane's  piano  had  prevented 
his  arrival  being  heard  in  the  back  parlor.  The  Irish  girl 
had  gone  to  the  door  when  be  rang  the  bell,  and  recognized 
in  him  what  she  called  "an  ould  friend."  Just  then  a  lady 
and  gentleman  who  had  been  caught  in  the  rain  came  run 
ning  along,  and  seeing  a  carriage  drawing  up  at  a  door,  the 
gentleman  inquired  of  the  driver  if  he  could  not  take  them 
to  Rutgers  Place.  The  driver  replied  that  he  had  just  come 
for  two  ladies  and  a  gentleman  whom  he  had  brought  from 
the  Astor  House. 

"Indeed  and  Patrick,"  said  the  girl  who  stood  at  the  door, 
"if  I  was  you  I'd  be  after  making  another  penny  to-night. 
Miss  Jane  is  pounding  away  at  one  of  her  long  music  pieces, 
and  it  won't  be  over  before  you  have  time  to  get  to  Rutgers 
and  back  again.  And  if  you  do  make  them  wait  awhile, 
Where's  the  harm?  They've  a  dry  roof  over  their  heads, 
and  I  warrant  it's  not  the  first  waiting  they've  ever  had  in 
their  lives;  and  it  won't  be  the  last  neither." 

"Exactly  so,"  said  the  gentleman;  and  regardless  of  the 
propriety  of  first  sending  to  consult  the  persons  who  had 
engaged  the  carriage,  he  told  his  wife  to  step  in,  and  follow 
ing  her  instantly  himself,  they  drove  away  to  Rutgers  Place. 

Reader,  if  you  were  ever  detained  in  a  strange  house  by 
the  non-arrival  of  your  carriage,  you  will  easily  understand 
the  excessive  annoyance  of  finding  that  you  are  keeping  a 
family  out  of  their  beds  beyond  their  usual  hour.  And  in 
this  case,  there  was  a  double  grievance;  the  guests  being 
all  impatience  to  get  off  to  a  better  place.  The  children,  all 
crying  when  wakened  from  their  sleep,  were  finally  taken  to 
bed  by  two  servant  maids,  and  Jane  Watkinson,  who  never 
came  back  again.  None  were  left  but  Hester,  the  great 
French  scholar,  who,  being  one  of  those  young  imps  that 
seem  to  have  the  faculty  of  living  without  sleep,  sat  bolt 
upright  with  her  eyes  wide  open,  watching  the  uncomfortable 
visitors. 

The  Morlands  felt  as  if  they  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and 
Edward  proposed  sending  for  another  carriage  to  the  nearest 
livery  stable. 

"We  don't  keep  a  man  now,"  said  Mrs.  Watkinson,  whc 


50      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

sat  nodding  in  the  rocking-chair,  attempting  now  and  then 
a  snatch  of  conversation,  and  saying  "ma'am"  still  more  fre 
quently  than  usual.  "Men  servants  are  dreadful  trials, 
ma'am,  and  we  gave  them  up  three  years  ago.  And  I  don't 
know  how  Mary  or  Katy  are  to  go  out  this  stormy  night  in 
search  of  a  livery  stable." 

"On  no  consideration  could  I  allow  the  women  to  do  so," 
replied  Edward.  "If  you  will  oblige  me  by  the  loan  of  an 
umbrella,  I  will  go  myself." 

Accordingly  he  set  out  on  this  business,  but  was  unsuc 
cessful  at  two  livery  stables,  the  carriages  being  all  out.  At 
last  he  found  one,  and  was  driven  in  it  to  Mr.  Watkinson's 
house,  where  his  mother  and  sister  were  awaiting  him,  all 
quite  ready,  with  their  calashes  and  shawls  on.  They  gladly 
took  their  leave;  Mrs.  Watkinson  rousing  herself  to  hope 
they  had  spent  a  pleasant  evening,  and  that  they  would 
come  and  pass  another  with  her  on  their  return  to  New  York. 
In  such  cases  how  difficult  it  is  to  reply  even  with  what  are 
called  "words  of  course." 

A  kitchen  lamp  was  brought  to  light  them  to  the  door, 
the  entry  lamp  having  long  since  been  extinguished.  Fortu 
nately  the  rain  had  ceased ;  the  stars  began  to  reappear,  and 
the  Morlands,  when  they  found  themselves  in  the  carriage 
and  on  their  way  to  Mrs.  St.  Leonard's,  felt  as  if  they  could 
breathe  again.  As  may  be  supposed,  they  freely  discussed 
the  annoyances  of  the  evening;  but  now  those  troubles  were 
over  they  felt  rather  inclined  to  be  merry  about  them. 

"Dear  mother,"  said  Edward,  "how  I  pitied  you  for  hav 
ing  to  endure  Mrs.  Watkinson's  perpetual  'ma'aming'  and 
'ma'aming';  for  I  know  you  dislike  the  word." 

"I  wish,"  said  Caroline,  "I  was  not  so  prone  to  be  taken 
with  ridiculous  recollections.  But  really  to-night  I  could 
not  get  that  old  foolish  child's  play  out  of  my  head — 

Here  come  three  knights  out  of  Spain 
A-courting  of  your  daughter  Jane." 

"/  shall  certainly  never  be  one  of  those  Spanish  knights," 
said  Edward.  "Her  daughter  Jane  is  in  no  danger  of  being 


THE  WATKINSON  EVENING  51 

ruled  by  any  'flattering  tongue'  of  mine.  But  what  a  shame 
for  us  to  be  talking  of  them  in  this  manner." 

They  drove  to  Mrs.  St.  Leonard's,  hoping  to  be  yet  in 
time  to  pass  half  an  hour  there;  though  it  was  now  near 
twelve  o'clock  and  summer  parties  never  continue  to  a  very 
late  hour.  But  as  they  came  into  the  street  in  which  she 
lived  they  were  met  by  a  number  of  coaches  on  their  way 
home,  and  on  reaching  the  door  of  her  brilliantly  lighted 
mansion,  they  saw  the  last  of  the  guests  driving  off  in  the 
last  of  the  carriages,  and  several  musicians  coming  down 
the  steps  with  their  instruments  in  their  hands. 

"So  there  has  been  a  dance,  then!"  sighed  Caroline.  "Oh, 
what  we  have  missed!  It  is  really  too  provoking." 

"So  it  is,"  said  Edward;  "but  remember  that  to-morrovr 
morning  we  set  off  for  Niagara." 

"I  will  leave  a  note  for  Mrs.  St.  Leonard,"  said  his 
mother,  "explaining  that  we  were  detained  at  Mrs.  Watkin- 
son's  by  our  coachman  disappointing  us.  Let  us  console 
ourselves  with  the  hope  of  seeing  more  of  this  lady  on  our 
return.  And  now,  dear  Caroline,  you  must  draw  a  moral 
from  the  untoward  events  of  to-day.  When  you  are  mis 
tress  of  a  house,  and  wish  to  show  civility  to  strangers,  let 
the  invitation  be  always  accompanied  with  a  frank  disclo 
sure  of  what  they  are  to  expect.  And  if  you  cannot  con 
veniently  invite  company  to  meet  them,  tell  them  at  once 
that  you  will  not  insist  on  their  keeping  their  engagement 
with  you  if  anything  offers  afterwards  that  they  think  they 
would  prefer;  provided  only  that  they  apprize  you  in  time 
of  the  change  in  their  plan." 

"Oh,  mamma,"  replied  Caroline,  "you  may  be  sure  I  shall 
always  take  care  not  to  betray  my  visitors  into  an  engage 
ment  which  they  may  have  cause  to  regret,  particularly  if 
they  are  strangers  whose  time  is  limited.  I  shall  certainly, 
as  you  say,  tell  them  not  to  consider  themselves  bound  to 
me  if  they  afterwards  receive  an  invitation  which  promises 
them  more  enjoyment.  It  will  be  a  long  while  before  I  for* 
get  the  Watkinson  evening." 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES 

BY  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS  (1824-1892) 
In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio. 

PRUE  and  I  do  not  entertain  much ;  our  means  forbid  it. 
In  truth,  other  people  entertain  for  us.  We  enjoy  that 
hospitality  of  which  no  account  is  made.  We  see  the 
show,  and  hear  the  music,  and  smell  the  flowers  of  great  fes 
tivities,  tasting  as  it  were  the  drippings  from  rich  dishes.  Our 
own  dinner  service  is  remarkably  plain,  our  dinners,  even  on 
state  occasions,  are  strictly  hi  keeping,  and  almost  our  only 
guest  is  Titbottom.  I  buy  a  handful  of  roses  as  I  come  up 
from  .the  office,  perhaps,  and  Prue  arranges  them  so  prettily  in 
a  glass  dish  for  the  centre  of  the  table  that  even  when  I 
have  hurried  out  to  see  Aurelia  step  into  her  carriage  to 
go  out  to  dine,  I  have  thought  that  the  bouquet  she  carried 
was  not  more  beautiful  because  it  was  more  costly.  I  grant 
that  it  was  more  harmonious  with  her  superb  beauty  and 
her  rich  attire.  And  I  have  no  doubt  that  if  Aurelia  knew 
the  old  man,  whom  she  must  have  seen  so  often  watching 
her,  and  his  wife,  who  ornaments  her  sex  with  as  much  sweet 
ness,  although  with  less  splendor,  than  Aurelia  herself,  she 
would  also  acknowledge  that  the  nosegay  of  roses  was  as 
fine  and  fit  upon  their  table  as  her  own  sumptuous  bouquet 
is  for  herself.  I  have  that  faith  in  the  perception  of  that 
lovely  lady.  It  is  at  least  my  habit — I  hope  I  may  say,  my 
nature,  to  believe  the  best  of  people,  rather  than  the  worst. 
If  I  thought  that  all  this  sparkling  setting  of  beauty — this 
fine  fashion — these  blazing  jewels  and  lustrous  silks  and  airy 
gauzes,  embellished  with  gold-threaded  embroidery  and 
wrought  in  a  thousand  exquisite  elaborations,  so  that  I 

From  Putnam's  Monthly,  December,  1854.  Republished  in  the 
volume,  Prue  and  I  (1856),  by  George  William  Curtis  (Harper 
&  Brothers). 

52 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES  52 

cannot  see  one  of  those  lovely  girls  pass  me  by  without 
thanking  God  for  the  vision — if  I  thought  that  this  was  all, 
and  that  underneath  her  lace  flounces  and  diamond  brace 
lets  Aurelia  was  a  sullen,  selfish  woman,  then  I  should  turn 
sadly  homewards,  for  I  should  see  that  her  jewels  were 
flashing  scorn  upon  the  object  they  adorned,  and  that  her 
laces  were  of  a  more  exquisite  loveliness  than  the  woman 
whom  they  merely  touched  with  a  superficial  grace.  It 
would  be  like  a  gaily  decorated  mausoleum — bright  to  see, 
but  silent  and  dark  within. 

"Great  excellences,  my  dear  Prue,"  I  sometimes  allow 
myself  to  say,  "lie  concealed  in  the  depths  of  character,  like 
pearls  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  Under  the  laughing,  glanc 
ing  surface,  how  little  they  are  suspected!  Perhaps  love  is 
nothing  else  than  the  sight  of  them  by  one  person.  Hence 
every  man's  mistress  is  apt  to  be  an  enigma  to  everybody 
else.  I  have  no  doubt  that  when  Aurelia  is  engaged,  people 
will  say  that  she  is  a  most  admirable  girl,  certainly;  but 
they  cannot  understand  why  any  man  should  be  in  love 
with  her.  As  if  it  were  at  all  necessary  that  they  should! 
And  her  lover,  like  a  boy  who  finds  a  pearl  in  the  public 
street,  and  wonders  as  much  that  others  did  not  see  it  as  that 
he  did,  will  tremble  until  he  knows  his  passion  is  returned; 
feeling,  of  course,  that  the  whole  world  must  be  in  love  with 
this  paragon  who  cannot  possibly  smile  upon  anything  so 
unworthy  as  he." 

"I  hope,  therefore,  my  dear  Mrs.  Prue,"  I  continue  to  say 
to  my  wife,  who  looks  up  from  her  work  regarding  me  with 
pleased  pride,  as  if  I  were  such  an  irresistible  humorist,  "you 
will  allow  me  to  believe  that  the  depth  may  be  calm  although 
the  surface  is  dancing.  If  you  tell  me  that  Aurelia  is  but  a 
giddy  girl,  I  shall  believe  that  you  think  so.  But  I  shall 
know,  all  the  while,  what  profound  dignity,  and  sweetness, 
and  peace  lie  at  the  foundation  of  her  character." 

I  say  such  things  to  Titbottom  during  the  dull  season  at 
the  office.  And  I  have  known  him  sometimes  to  reply  with 
a  kind  of  dry,  sad  humor,  not  as  if  he  enjoyed  the  joke, 
but  as  if  the  joke  must  be  made,  that  he  saw  no  reason  why 
I  should  be  dull  because  the  season  was  so. 


54      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"And  what  do  I  know  of  Aurelia  or  any  other  girl?"  he 
says  to  me  with  that  abstracted  air.  "I,  whose  Aurelias  were 
of  another  century  and  another  zone." 

Then  he  falls  into  a  silence  which  it  seems  quite  profane 
to  interrupt.  But  as  we  sit  upon  our  high  stools  at  the 
desk  opposite  each  other,  I  leaning  upon  my  elbows  and 
looking  at  him;  he,  with  sidelong  face,  glancing  out  of  the 
window,  as  if  it  commanded  a  boundless  landscape,  instead 
of  a  dim,  dingy  office  court,  I  cannot  refrain  from  saying: 

"Well!" 

He  turns  slowly,  and  I  go  chatting  on — a  little  too  loqua 
cious,  perhaps,  about  those  young  girls.  But  I  know  that 
Titbottom  regards  such  an  excess  as  venial,  for  his  sadness 
is  so  sweet  that  you  could  believe  it  'the  reflection  of  a  smile 
from  long,  long  years  ago. 

One  day,  after  I  had  been  talking  for  a  long  time,  and 
we  had  put  up  our  books,  and  were  preparing  to  leave,  he 
stood  for  some  time  by  the  window,  gazing  with  a  drooping 
intentness,  as  if  he  really  saw  something  more  than  the  dark 
court,  and  said  slowly: 

"Perhaps  you  would  have  different  impressions  of  things 
if  you  saw  them  through  my  spectacles." 

There  was  no  change  in  his  expression.  He  still  looked 
from  the  window,  and  I  said: 

"Titbottom,  I  did  not  know  that  you  used  glasses.  I 
have  never  seen  you  wearing  spectacles." 

"No,  I  don't  often  wear  them.  I  am  not  very  fond  of 
looking  through  them.  But  sometimes  an  irresistible  neces 
sity  compels  me  to  put  them  on,  and  I  cannot  help  seeing." 
Titbottom  sighed. 

"Is  it  so  grievous  a  fate,  to  see?"  inquired  I. 

"Yes;  through  my  spectacles,"  he  said,  turning  slowly  and 
looking  at  me  with  wan  solemnity. 

It  grew  dark  as  we  stood  in  the  office  talking,  and  taking 
our  hats  we  went  out  together.  The  narrow  street  of  busi 
ness  was  deserted.  The  heavy  iron  shutters  were  gloomily 
closed  over  the  windows.  From  one  or  two  offices  struggled 
the  dim  gleam  of  an  early  candle,  by  whose  light  some  per 
plexed  accountant  sat  belated,  and  hunting  for  his  error.  A 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES  55 

careless  clerk  passed,  whistling.  But  the  great  tide  of  life 
had  ebbed.  We  heard  its  roar  far  away,  and  the  sound  stole 
into  that  silent  street  like  the  murmur  of  the  ocean  into  an 
inland  dell. 

"You  will  come  and  dine  with  us,  Titbottom?" 

He  assented  by  continuing  to  walk  with  me,  and  I  think 
we  were  both  glad  when  we  reached  the  house,  and  Prue 
came  to  meet  us,  saying: 

"Do  you  know  I  hoped  you  would  bring  Mr.  Titbottom 
to  dine?" 

Titbottom  smiled  gently,  and  answered: 

"He  might  have  brought  his  spectacles  with  him,  and  I 
have  been  a  happier  man  for  it." 

Prue  looked  a  little  puzzled. 

"My  dear,"  I  said,  "you  must  know  that  our  friend,  Mr. 
Titbottom,  is  the  happy  possessor  of  a  pair  of  wonderful 
spectacles.  I  have  never  seen  them,  indeed;  and,  from  what 
he  says,  I  should  be  rather  afraid  of  being  seen  by  them. 
Most  short-sighted  persons  are  very  glad  to  have  the  help 
of  glasses;  but  Mr.  Titbottom  seems  to  find  very  little  pleas 
ure  in  his." 

"It  is  because  they  make  him  too  far-sighted,  perhaps," 
interrupted  Prue  quietly,  as  she  took  the  silver  soup-ladle 
from  the  sideboard. 

We  sipped  our  wine  after  dinner,  and  Prue  took  her 
work.  Can  a  man  be  too  far-sighted?  I  did  not  ask  the 
question  aloud.  The  very  tone  hi  which  Prue  had  spoken 
convinced  me  that  he  might. 

"At  least,"  I  said,  "Mr.  Titbottom  will  not  refuse  to  tell 
us  the  history  of  his  mysterious  spectacles.  I  have  known 
plenty  of  magic  in  eyes" — and  I  glanced  at  the  tender  blue 
eyes  of  Prue — "but  I  have  not  heard  of  any  enchanted 
glasses." 

"Yet  you  must  have  seen  the  glass  in  which  your  wife 
looks  every  morning,  and  I  take  it  that  glass  must  be  daily 
enchanted."  said  Titbottom,  with  a  bow  of  quaint  respect  to 
my  wife. 

I  do  not  think  I  have  seen  such  a  blush  upon  Prue's 
cheek  since — well,  since  a  great  many  years  ago. 


56      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"I  will  gladly  tell  you  the  history  of  my  spectacles,"  began 
Titbottom.  "It  is  very  simple;  and  I  am  not  at  all  sure 
that  a  great  many  other  people  have  not  a  pair  of  the  same 
kind.  I  have  never,  indeed,  heard  of  them  by  the  gross, 
like  those  of  our  young  friend,  Moses,  the  son  of  the  Vicar 
of  Wakefield.  In  fact,  I  think  a  gross  would  be  quite  enough 
to  supply  the  world.  It  is  a  kind  of  article  for  which  the 
demand  does  not  increase  with  use.  If  we  should  all  wear 
spectacles  like  mine,  we  should  never  smile  any  more.  Oh — 
I  am  not  quite  sure — we  should  all  be  very  happy." 

"A  very  important  difference,"  said  Prue,  counting  her 
stitches. 

"You  know  my  grandfather  Titbottom  was  a  West  In 
dian.  A  large  proprietor,  and  an  easy  man,  he  basked  in 
the  tropical  sun,  leading  his  quiet,  luxurious  life.  He  lived 
Jiuch  alone,  and  was  what  people  call  eccentric,  by  which  I 
understand  that  he  was  very  much  himself,  and,  refusing  the 
influence  of  other  people,  they  had  their  little  revenges,  and 
called  him  names.  It  is  a  habit  not  exclusively  tropical.  I 
think  I  have  seen  the  same  thing  even  in  this  city.  But  he 
was  greatly  beloved — my  bland  and  bountiful  grandfather. 
He  was  so  large-hearted  and  open-handed.  He  was  so 
friendly,  and  thoughtful,  and  genial,  that  even  his  jokes  had 
the  adr  of  graceful  benedictions.  He  did  not  seem  to  grow 
old,  and  he  was  one  of  those  who  never  appear  to  have  been 
very  young.  He  flourished  in  a  perennial  maturity,  an  im 
mortal  middle-age. 

"My  grandfather  lived  upon  one  of  the  small  islands,  St. 
Kit's,  perhaps,  and  his  domain  extended  to  the  sea.  His 
house,  a  rambling  West  Indian  mansion,  was  surrounded 
with  deep,  spacious  piazzas,  covered  with  luxurious  lounges, 
among  which  one  capacious  chair  was  his  peculiar  seat.  They 
tell  me  he  used  sometimes  to  sit  there  for  the  whole  day,  his 
great,  soft,  brown  eyes  fastened  upon  the  sea,  watching  the 
specks  of  sails  that  flashed  upon  the  horizon,  while  the  evan 
escent  expressions  chased  each  other  over  his  placid  face,  as 
if  it  reflected  the  calm  and  changing  sea  before  him.  His 
morning  costume  was  an  ample  dressing-gown  of  gorgeously 
flowered  silk,  and  his  morning  was  very  apt  to  last  all  day. 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES  57 

He  rarely  read,  but  he  would  pace  the  great  piazza  for  hours, 
with  his  hands  sunken  in  the  pockets  of  his  dressing-gown, 
and  an  air  of  sweet  reverie,  which  any  author  might  be  very 
happy  to  produce. 

"  Society,  of  course,  he  saw  little.  There  was  some  slight 
apprehension  that  if  he  were  bidden  to  social  entertainments 
he  might  forget  his  coat,  or  arrive  without  some  other  essen 
tial  part  of  his  dress;  and  there  is  a  sly  tradition  in  the  Tit- 
bottom  family  that,  having  been  invited  to  a  ball  in  honor 
of  the  new  governor  of  the  island,  my  grandfather  Titbottom 
sauntered  into  the  hall  towards  midnight,  wrapped  in  the 
gorgeous  flowers  of  his  dressing-gown,  and  with  his  hands 
buried  in  the  pockets,  as  usual.  There  was  great  excite 
ment,  and  immense  deprecation  of  gubernatorial  ire.  But 
it  happened  that  the  governor  and  my  grandfather  were  old 
friends,  and  there  was  no  offense.  But  as  they  were  con 
versing  together,  one  of  the  distressed  managers  cast  indig 
nant  glances  at  the  brilliant  costume  of  my  grandfather,  who 
summoned  him,  and  asked  courteously: 

"  'Did  you  invite  me  or  my  coat?' 

"  'You,  in  a  proper  coat,'  replied  the  manager. 

"The  governor  smiled  approvingly,  and  looked  at  my 
grandfather. 

"  'My  friend,"  said  he  to  the  manager,  'I  beg  your  par 
don,  I  forgot.' 

"The  next  day  my  grandfather  was  seen  promenading  in 
full  ball  dress  along  the  streets  of  the  little  town. 

"  'They  ought  to  know,'  said  he,  'that  I  have  a  proper 
coat,  and  that  not  contempt  nor  poverty,  but  forgetfulness, 
sent  me  to  a  ball  in  my  dressing-gown.' 

"He  did  not  much  frequent  social  festivals  after  this 
failure,  but  he  always  told  the  story  with  satisfaction  and  a 
quiet  smile. 

"To  a  stranger,  life  upon  those  little  islands  is  uniform 
even  to  weariness.  But  the  old  native  dons  like  my  grand 
father  ripen  in  the  prolonged  sunshine,  like  the  turtle  upon 
the  Bahama  banks,  nor  know  of  existence  more  desirable. 
Life  in  the  tropics  I  take  to  be  a  placid  torpidity.  During 
the  long,  warm  mornings  of  nearly  half  a  century,  my  grand- 


58      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

father  Titbottom  had  sat  in  his  dressing-gown  and  gazed 
at  the  sea.  But  one  calm  June  day,  as  he  slowly  paced 
the  piazza,  after  breakfast,  his  dreamy  glance  was  arrested 
by  a  little  vessel,  evidently  nearing  the  shore.  He  called  for 
his  spyglass,  and  surveying  the  craft,  saw  that  she  came 
from  the  neighboring  island.  She  glided  smoothly,  slowly, 
over  the  summer  sea.  The  warm  morning  air  was  sweet 
with  perfumes,  and  silent  with  heat.  The  sea  sparkled 
languidly,  and  the  •brilliant  blue  hung  cloudlessly  over.  Scores 
of  little  island  vessels  had  my  grandfather  seen  come 
over  the  horizon,  and  cast  anchor  in  the  port.  Hun 
dreds  of  summer  mornings  had  the  white  sails  flashed  and 
faded,  like  vague  faces  through  forgotten  dreams.  But  this 
time  he  laid  down  the  spyglass,  and  leaned  against  a  column 
of  the  piazza,  and  watched  the  vessel  with  an  intentness  that 
he  could  not  explain.  She  came  nearer  and  nearer,  a  grace 
ful  spectre  in  the  dazzling  morning. 

"  'Decidedly  I  must  step  down  and  see  about  that  vessel,' 
said  my  grandfather  Titbottom. 

"He  gathered  his  ample  dressing-gown  about  him,  and 
stepped  from  the  piazza  with  no  other  protection  from  the 
sun  than  the  little  smoking  cap  upon  his  head.  His  face 
wore  a  calm,  beaming  smile,  as  if  he  approved  of  all  the 
world.  He  was  not  an  old  man,  but  there  was  almost  a  pa 
triarchal  pathos  in  his  expression  as  he  sauntered  along  in 
the  sunshine  towards  the  shore.  A  group  of  idle  gazers  was 
collected  to  watch  the  arrival.  The  little  vessel  furled  her 
sails  and  drifted  slowly  landward,  and  as  she  was  of  very 
light  draft,  she  came  close  to  the  shelving  shore.  A  long 
plank  was  put  out  from  her  side,  and  the  debarkation  com 
menced.  My  grandfather  Titbottom  stood  looking  on  to  see 
the  passengers  descend.  There  were  but  a  few  of  them,  and 
mostly  traders  from  the  neighboring  island.  But  suddenly 
the  face  of  a  young  girl  appeared  over  the  side  of  the  vessel, 
and  she  stepped  upon  the  plank  to  descend.  My  grand 
father  Titbottom  instantly  advanced,  and  moving  briskly 
reached  the  top  of  the  plank  at  the  same  moment,  and  with 
the  old  tassel  of  his  cap  flashing  in  the  sun,  and  one  hand  in 
the  pocket  of  his  dressing  gown,  with  the  other  he  handed 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES  59 

the  young  lady  carefully  down  the  plank.  That  young  lady 
was  afterwards  my  grandmother  Titbottom. 

"And  so,  over  the  gleaming  sea  which  he  had  watched  so 
long,  and  which  seemed  thus  to  reward  his  patient  gaze,  came 
his  bride  that  sunny  morning. 

"  'Of  course  we  are  happy,'  he  used  to  say:  'For  you  are 
the  gift  of  the  sun  I  have  loved  so  long  and  so  well.'  And 
my  grandfather  Titbottom  would  lay  his  hand  so  tenderly 
upon  the  golden  hair  of  his  young  bride,  that  you  could 
fancy  him  a  devout  Parsee  caressing  sunbeams. 

"There  were  endless  festivities  upon  occasion  of  the  mar 
riage;  and  my  grandfather  did  not  go  to  one  of  them  in  his 
dressing-gown.  The  gentle  sweetness  of  his  wife  melted 
every  heart  into  love  and  sympathy.  He  was  much  older 
than  she,  without  doubt.  But  age,  as  he  used  to  say  with  a 
smile  of  immortal  youth,  is  a  matter  of  feeling,  not  of  years. 
And  if,  sometimes,  as  she  sat  by  his  side  upon  the  piazza, 
her  fancy  looked  through  her  eyes  upon  that  summer  sea 
and  saw  a  younger  lover,  perhaps  some  one  of  those  graceful 
and  glowing  heroes  who  occupy  the  foreground  of  all  young 
maidens'  visions  by  the  sea,  yet  she  could  not  find  one  more 
generous  and  gracious,  nor  fancy  one  more  worthy  and  loving 
than  my  grandfather  Titbottom.  And  if  in  the  moonlit  mid 
night,  while  he  lay  calmly  sleeping,  she  leaned  out  of  the 
window  and  sank  into  vague  reveries  of  sweet  possibility, 
and  watched  the  gleaming  path  of  the  moonlight  upon  the 
water,  until  the  dawn  glided  over  it — it  was  only  that  mood 
of  nameless  regret  and  longing,  which  underlies  all  human 
'happiness, — or  it  was  the  vision  of  that  life  of  society,  which 
she  had  never  seen,  but  of  which  she  had  often  read,  and 
which  looked  very  fair  and  alluring  across  the  sea  to  a  girlish 
imagination  which  knew  that  it  should  never  know  that 
reality. 

"These  West  Indian  years  were  the  great  days  of  the  fam 
ily,"  said  Titbottom,  with  an  air  of  majestic  and  regal  re 
gret,  pausing  and  musing  in  our  little  parlor,  like  a  late 
Stuart  in  exile,  remembering  England.  Prue  raised  her  eye? 
from  her  work,  and  looked  at  him  with  a  subdued  admira^ 
tion;  for  I  have  observed  that,  like  the  rest  of  her  sex,  she 


60      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

has  a  singular  sympathy  with  the  representative  of  a  reduced 
family.  Perhaps  it  is  their  finer  perception  which  leads  these 
tender-hearted  women  to  recognize  the  divine  right  of  social 
superiority  so  much  more  readily  than  we;  and  yet,  much 
as  Titbottom  was  enhanced  in  my  wife's  admiration  by  the 
discovery  that  his  dusky  sadness  of  nature  and  expression 
was,  as  it  were,  the  expiring  gleam  and  late  twilight  of  ances 
tral  splendors,  I  doubt  if  Mr.  Bourne  would  have  preferred 
him  for  bookkeeper  a  moment  sooner  upon  that  account.  In 
truth,  I  have  observed,  down  town,  that  the  fact  of  your 
ancestors  doing  nothing  is  not  considered  good  proof  that 
you  can  do  anything.  But  Prue  and  her  sex  regard  senti 
ment  more  than  action,  and  I  understand  easily  enough  why 
she  is  never  tired  of  hearing  me  read  of  Prince  Charlie.  If 
Titbottom  had  been  only  a  little  younger,  a  little  handsomer, 
a  little  more  gallantly  dressed — in  fact,  a  little  more  of  the 
Prince  Charlie,  I  am  sure  her  eyes  would  not  have  fallen 
again  upon  her  work  so  tranquilly,  as  he  resumed  his 
story. 

"I  can  remember  my  grandfather  Titbottom,  although  I 
was  a  very  young  child,  and  he  was  a  very  old  man.  My 
young  mother  and  my  young  grandmother  are  very  distinct 
figures  in  my  memory,  ministering  to  the  old  gentleman, 
wrapped  in  his  dressing-gown,  and  seated  upon  the  piazza.  I 
remember  his  white  hair  and  his  calm  smile,  and  how,  not 
long  before  he  died,  he  called  me  to  him,  and  laying  his 
hand  upon  my  head,  said  to  me: 

"  'My  child,  the  world  is  not  this  great  sunny  piazza,  nor 
life  the  fairy  stories  which  the  women  tell  you  here  as  you 
sit  in  their  laps.  I  shall  soon  be  gone,  but  I  want  to  leave 
with  you  some  memento  of  my  love  for  you,  and  I  know 
nothing  more  valuable  than  these  spectacles,  which  your 
grandmother  brought  from  her  native  island,  when  she  ar 
rived  here  one  fine  summer  morning,  long  ago.  I  cannot 
quite  tell  whether,  when  you  grow  older,  you  will  regard  it 
as  a  gift  of  the  greatest  value  or  as  something  that  you  had 
been  happier  never  to  have  possessed.' 

"  'But  grandpapa,  I  am  not  short-sighted.' 

"  'My  son,  are  you  not  human?'  said  the  old  gentleman; 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES  61 

and  how  shall  I  ever  forget  the  thoughtful  sadness  with 
which,  at  the  same  time  he  handed  me  the  spectacles. 

"Instinctively  I  put  them  on,  and  looked  at  my  grand 
father.  But  I  saw  no  grandfather,  no  piazza,  no  flowered 
dressing-gown;  I  saw  only  a  luxuriant  palm-tree,  waving 
broadly  over  a  tranquil  landscape.  Pleasant  homes  clustered 
around  it.  Gardens  teeming  with  fruit  and  flowers;  flocks 
quietly  feeding;  birds  wheeling  and  chirping.  I  heard  chil 
dren's  voices,  and  the  low  lullaby  of  happy  mothers.  The 
sound  of  cheerful  singing  came  wafted  from  distant  fields 
upon  the  light  breeze.  Golden  harvests  glistened  out  of  sight, 
and  I  caught  their  rustling  whisper  of  prosperity.  A  warm, 
mellow  atmosphere  bathed  the  whole.  I  have  seen  copies  of 
the  landscapes  of  the  Italian  painter  Claude  which  seemed 
to  me  faint  reminiscences  of  that  calm  and  happy  vision. 
But  all  this  peace  and  prosperity  seemed  to  flow  from  the 
spreading  palm  as  from  a  fountain. 

"I  do  not  know  how  long  I  looked,  but  I  had,  apparently, 
no  power,  as  I  had  no  will,  to  remove  the  spectacles.  What 
a  wonderful  island  must  Nevis  be,  thought  I,  if  people  carry 
such  pictures  in  their  pockets,  only  by  buying  a  pair  of  spec 
tacles!  What  wonder  that  my  dear  grandmother  Titbottom 
has  lived  such  a  placid  life,  and  has  blessed  us  all  with  her 
sunny  temper,  when  she  has  lived  surrounded  by  such  images 
of  peace. 

"My  grandfather  died.  But  still,  in  the  warm  morning 
sunshine  upon  the  piazza,  I  felt  his  placid  presence,  and  as 
I  crawled  into  his  great  chair,  and  drifted  on  in  reverie 
through  the  still,  tropical  day,  it  was  as  if  his  soft,  dreamy 
eye  had  passed  into  my  soul.  My  grandmother  cherished 
his  memory  with  tender  regret.  A  violent  passion  of  grief 
for  his  loss  was  no  more  possible  than  for  the  pensive  decay 
of  the  year.  We  have  no  portrait  of  him,  but  I  see  always, 
when  I  remember  him,  that  peaceful  and  luxuriant  palm. 
And  I  think  that  to  have  known  one  good  old  man — one  man 
who,  through  the  chances  and  rubs  of  a  long  life,  has  car 
ried  his  heart  in  his  hand,  like  a  palm  branch,  waving  all 
discords  into  peace,  helps  our  faith  in  God,  in  ourselves,  and 
in  each  other,  more  than  many  sermons.  I  hardly  know 


62       AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

whether  to  be  grateful  to  my  grandfather  for  the  spectacles; 
and  yet  when  I  remember  that  it  is  to  them  I  owe  the  pleas 
ant  image  of  him  which  I  cherish,  I  seem  to  myself  sadly 
ungrateful. 

"Madam,"  said  Titbottom  to  Prue,  solemnly,  "my  memory 
is  a  long  and  gloomy  gallery,  and  only  remotely,  at  its  further 
end,  do  I  see  the  glimmer  of  soft  sunshine,  and  only  there 
are  the  pleasant  pictures  hung.  They  seem  to  me  very  happy 
along  whose  gallery  the  sunlight  streams  to  their  very  feet, 
striking  all  the  pictured  walls  into  unfading  splendor." 

Prue  had  laid  her  work  in  her  lap,  and  as  Titbottom  paused 
a  moment,  and  I  turned  towards  her,  I  found  her  mild  eyes 
fastened  upon  my  face,  and  glistening  with  happy  tears. 

"Misfortunes  of  many  kinds  came  heavily  upon  the  family 
after  the  head  was  gone.  The  great  house  was  relinquished. 
My  parents  were  both  dead,  and  my  grandmother  had  entire 
charge  of  me.  But  from  the  moment  that  I  received  the  gift 
of  the  spectacles,  I  could  not  resist  their  fascination,  and  I 
withdrew  into  myself,  and  became  a  solitary  boy.  There 
were  not  many  companions  for  me  of  my  own  age,  and  they 
gradually  left  me,  or,  at  least,  had  not  a  hearty  sympathy 
with  me;  for  if  they  teased  me  I  pulled  out  my  spectacles 
and  surveyed  them  so  seriously  that  they  acquired  a  kind 
of  awe  of  me,  and  evidently  regarded  my  grandfather's  gift 
as  a  concealed  magical  weapon  which  might  be  dangerously 
drawn  upon  them  at  any  moment.  Whenever,  in  our  games, 
there  were  quarrels  and  high  words,  and  I  began  to  feel 
about  my  dress  and  to  wear  a  grave  look,  they  all  took  the 
alarm,  and  shouted,  'Look  out  for  Titbottom's  spectacles,' 
and  scattered  like  a  flock  of  scared  sheep. 

"Nor  could  I  wonder  at  it.  For,  at  first,  before  they  took 
the  alarm,  I  saw  strange  sights  when  I  looked  at  them  through 
the  glasses.  If  two  were  quarrelling  about  a  marble  or  a 
ball,  I  had  only  to  go  behind  a  tree  where  I  was  concealed 
and  look  at  them  leisurely.  Then  the  scene  changed,  and 
no  longer  a  green  meadow  with  boys  playing,  but  a  spot 
which  I  did  not  recognize,  and  forms  that  made  me  shudder 
or  smile.  It  was  not  a  big  boy  bullying  a  little  one,  but  a 
young  wolf  with  glistening  teeth  and  a  lamb  cowering  before 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES  63 

him;  or,  it  was  a  dog  faithful  and  famishing — or  a  star 
going  slowly  into  eclipse — or  a  rainbow  fading — or  a  flower 
blooming — or  a  sun  rising — or  a  waning  moon.  The  revela 
tions  of  the  spectacles  determined  my  feeling  for  the  boys, 
and  for  all  whom  I  saw  through  them.  No  shyness,  noi 
awkwardness,  nor  silence,  could  separate  me  from  those  who 
looked  lovely  as  lilies  to  my  illuminated  eyes.  If  I  felt  my 
self  warmly  drawn  to  any  one  I  struggled  with  the  fierce 
desire  of  seeing  him  through  the  spectacles.  I  longed  to  en 
joy  the  luxury  of  ignorant  feeling,  to  love  without  knowing, 
to  float  like  a  leaf  upon  the  eddies  of  life,  drifted  now  to  a 
sunny  point,  now  to  a  solemn  shade — now  over  glittering 
ripples,  now  over  gleaming  calms, — and  not  to  determined 
ports,  a  trim  vessel  with  an  inexorable  rudder. 

"But,  sometimes,  mastered  after  long  struggles,  I  seized 
my  spectacles  and  sauntered  into  the  little  town.  Putting 
them  to  my  eyes  I  peered  into  the  houses  and  at  the  people 
who  passed  me.  Here  sat  a  family  at  breakfast,  and  I  stood 
at  the  window  looking  in.  O  motley  meal!  fantastic  vision! 
The  good  mother  saw  her  lord  sitting  opposite,  a  grave,  re 
spectable  being,  eating  muffins.  But  I  saw  only  a  bank- 
bill,  more  or  less  crumpled  and  tattered,  marked  with  a  larger 
or  lesser  figure.  If  a  sharp  wind  blew  suddenly,  I  saw  it 
tremble  and  flutter;  it  was  thin,  flat,  impalpable.  I  removed 
my  glasses,  and  looked  with  my  eyes  at  the  wife.  I  could 
have  smiled  to  see  the  humid  tenderness  with  which  she  re 
garded  her  strange  vis-a-vis.  Is  life  only  a  game  of  blind- 
man's-buff?  of  droll  cross-purposes? 

"Or  I  put  them  on  again,  and  looked  at  the  wife.  How 
many  stout  trees  I  saw, — how  many  tender  flowers, — how 
many  placid  pools;  yes,  and  how  many  little  streams  wind 
ing  out  of  sight,  shrinking  before  the  large,  hard,  round 
eyes  opposite,  and  slipping  off  into  solitude  and  shade,  with 
a  low,  inner  song  for  their  own  solace.  And  in  many  houses 
I  thought  to  see  angels,  nymphs,  or  at  least,  women,  and 
could  only  find  broomsticks,  mops,  or  kettles,  hurrying  about, 
rattling,  tinkling,  in  a  state  of  shrill  activity.  I  made  calls 
upon  elegant  ladies,  and  after  I  had  enjoyed  the  gloss  of  silk 
and  the  delicacy  of  lace,  and  the  flash  of  jewels,  I  slipped 


64      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

on  my  spectacles,  and  saw  a  peacock's  feather,  flounced  and 
furbelowed  and  fluttering;  or  an  iron  rod,  thin,  sharp,  and 
hard;  nor  could  I  possibly  mistake  the  movement  of  the 
drapery  for  any  flexibility  of  the  thing  draped, — or,  myste 
riously  chilled,  I  saw  a  statue  of  perfect  form,  or  flowing 
movement,  it  might  be  alabaster,  or  bronze,  or  marble, — 
but  sadly  often  it  was  ice;  and  I  knew  that  after  it  had 
shone  a  little,  and  frozen  a  few  eyes  with  its  despairing  per 
fection,  it  could  not  be  put  away  in  the  niches  of  palaces 
for  ornament  and  proud  family  tradition,  like  the  alabaster, 
or  bronze,  or  marble  statues,  but  would  melt,  and  shrink, 
and  fall  coldly  away  in  colorless  and  useless  water,  be  ab 
sorbed  in  the  earth  and  utterly  forgotten. 

"But  the  true  sadness  was  rather  in  seeing  those  who,  not 
having  the  spectacles,  thought  that  the  iron  rod  was  flexible, 
and  the  ice  statue  warm.  I  saw  many  a  gallant  heart, 
which  seemed  to  me  brave  and  loyal  as  the  crusaders  sent 
by  genuine  and  noble  faith  to  Syria  and  the  sepulchre,  pur 
suing,  through  days  and  nights,  and  a  long  life  of  devotion, 
the  hope  of  lighting  at  least  a  smile  in  the  cold  eyes,  if  not 
a  fire  in  the  icy  heart.  I  watched  the  earnest,  enthusiastic 
sacrifice.  I  saw  the  pure  resolve,  the  generous  faith,  the 
fine  scorn  of  doubt,  the  impatience  of  suspicion.  I  watched 
the  grace,  the  ardor,  the  glory  of  devotion.  Through  those 
strange  spectacles  how  often  I  saw  the  noblest  heart  re 
nouncing  all  other  hope,  all  other  ambition,  all  other  life, 
than  the  possible  love  of  some  one  of  those  statues.  Ah! 
me,  it  was  terrible,  but  they  had  not  the  love  to  give.  The 
Parian  face  was  so  polished  and  smooth,  because  there  was 
no  sorrow  upon  the  heart, — and,  drearily  often,  no  heart  to  be 
touched.  I  could  not  wonder  that  the  noble  heart  of  devo 
tion  was  broken,  for  it  had  dashed  itself  against  a  stone.  I 
wept,  until  my  spectacles  were  dimmed  for  that  hopeless 
sorrow;  but  there  was  a  pang  beyond  tears  for  those  icy 
statues. 

"Still  a  boy,  I  was  thus  too  much  a  man  in  knowledge, — 
I  did  not  comprehend  the  sights  I  was  compelled  to  see.  I 
used  to  tear  my  glasses  away  from  my  eyes,  and,  frightened 
at  myself,  run  to  escape  my  own  consciousness.  Reaching 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES  6$ 

the  small  house  where  we  then  lived,  I  plunged  into  my  grand 
mother's  room  and,  throwing  myself  upon  the  floor,  buried 
my  face  in  her  lap;  and  sobbed  myself  to  sleep  with  pre 
mature  grief.  But  when  I  awakened,  and  felt  her  cool  hand 
upon  my  hot  forehead,  and  heard  the  low,  sweet  song,  or 
the  gentle  story,  or  the  tenderly  told  parable  from  the  Bible, 
with  which  she  tried  to  soothe  me,  I  could  not  resist  the 
mystic  fascination  that  lured  me,  as  I  lay  in  her  lap,  to 
steal  a  glance  at  her  through  the  spectacles. 

"Pictures  of  the  Madonna  have  not  her  rare  and  pensive 
beauty.  Upon  the  tranquil  little  islands  her  life  had  been 
eventless,  and  all  the  fine  possibilities  of  her  nature  were  like 
flowers  that  never  bloomed.  Placid  were  all  her  years;  yet 
I  have  read  of  no  heroine,  of  no  woman  great  in  sudden 
crises,  that  it  did  not  seem  to  me  she  might  have  been.  The 
wife  and  widow  of  a  man  who  loved  his  own  home  better 
than  the  homes  of  others,  I  have  yet  heard  of  no  queen,  no 
belle,  no  imperial  beauty,  whom  in  grace,  and  brilliancy, 
and  persuasive  courtesy,  she  might  not  have  surpassed. 

"Madam,"  said  Titbottom  to  my  wife,  whose  heart  hung 
upon  his  story;  "your  husband's  young  friend,  Aurelia, 
wears  sometimes  a  camelia  in  her  hair,  and  no  diamond  in 
the  ball-room  seems  so  costly  as  that  perfect  flower,  which 
women  envy,  and  for  whose  least  and  withered  petal  men 
sigh;  yet,  in  the  tropical  solitudes  of  Brazil,  how  many  a 
camelia  bud  drops  from  a  bush  that  no  eye  has  ever  seen, 
which,  had  it  flowered  and  been  noticed,  would  have  gilded 
all  hearts  with  its  memory. 

"When  I  stole  these  furtive  glances  at  my  grandmother, 
half  fearing  that  they  were  wrong,  I  saw  only  a  calm  lake, 
whose  shores  were  low,  and  over  which  the  sky  hung  un 
broken,  so  that  the  least  star  was  clearly  reflected.  It  had 
an  atmosphere  of  solemn  twilight  tranquillity,  and  so  com 
pletely  did  its  unruffled  surface  blend  with  the  cloudless, 
star-studded  sky,  that,  when  I  looked  through  my  spectacles 
at  my  grandmother,  the  vision  seemed  to  me  all  heaven  and 
stars.  Yet,  as  I  gazed  and  gazed,  I  felt  what  stately  cities 
might  well  have  been  built  upon  those  shores,  and  have 
flashed  prosperity  over  the  calm,  like  coruscations  of  pearls. 


66      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

I  dreamed  of  gorgeous  fleets,  silken  sailed  and  blown  by 
perfumed  winds,  drifting  over  those  depthless  waters  and 
through  those  spacious  skies.  I  gazed  upon  the  twilight,  the 
inscrutable  silence,  like  a  God-fearing  discoverer  upon  a 
new,  and  vast,  and  dim  sea,  bursting  upon  him  through  for 
est  glooms,  and  in  the  fervor  of  whose  impassioned  gaze,  a 
millennial  and  poetic  world  arises,  and  man  need  no  longer 
die  to  be  happy. 

"My  companions  naturally  deserted  me,  for  I  had  grown 
wearily  grave  and  abstracted:  and,  unable  to  resist  the  al 
lurement  of  my  spectacles,  I  was  constantly  lost  in  a  world, 
of  which  those  companions  were  part,  yet  of  which  they  knew 
nothing.  I  grew  cold  and  hard,  almost  morose;  people 
seemed  to  me  blind  and  unreasonable.  They  did  the  wrong 
thing.  They  called  green,  yellow;  and  black,  white.  Young 
men  said  of  a  girl,  'What  a  lovely,  simple  creature!'  I 
looked,  and  there  was  only  a  glistening  wisp  of  straw,  dry 
and  hollow.  Or  they  said,  'What  a  cold,  proud  beauty!'  I 
looked,  and  lo!  a  Madonna,  whose  heart  held  the  world. 
Or  they  said,  'What  a  wild,  giddy  girl!'  and  I  saw  a  glanc 
ing,  dancing  mountain  stream,  pure  as  the  virgin  snows 
whence  it  flowed,  singing  through  sun  and  shade,  over  pearls 
and  gold  dust,  slipping  along  unstained  by  weed,  or  rain, 
or  heavy  fpot  of  cattle,  touching  the  flowers  with  a  dewy 
kiss, — a  beam  of  grace,  a  happy  song,  a  line  of  light,  in  the 
dim  and  troubled  landscape. 

"My  grandmother  sent  me  to  school,  but  I  looked  at  the 
master,  and  saw  that  he  was  a  smooth,  round  ferule — or  an 
improper  noun — or  a  vulgar  fraction,  and  refused  to  obey 
him.  Or  he  was  a  piece  of  string,  a  rag,  a  willow-wand,  and 
I  had  a  contemptuous  pity.  But  one  was  a  well  of  cool,  deep 
water,  and  looking  suddenly  in,  one  day,  I  saw  the  stars. 
He  gave  me  all  my  schooling.  With  him  I  used  to  walk 
by  the  sea,  and,  as  we  strolled  and  the  waves  plunged  in 
long  legions  before  us,  I  looked  at  him  through  the  spectacles, 
and  as  his  eye  dilated  with  the  boundless  view,  and  his 
chest  heaved  with  an  impossible  desire,  I  saw  Xerxes  and  his 
army  tossing  and  glittering,  rank  upon  rank,  multitude  upon 
multitude,  out  of  sight,  but  ever  regularly  advancing  and 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES  67 

with  the  confused  roar  of  ceaseless  music,  prostrating  them 
selves  in  abject  homage.  Or,  as  with  arms  outstretched  and 
hair  streaming  on  the  wind,  he  chanted  full  lines  of  the 
resounding  Iliad,  I  saw  Homer  pacing  the  .ffigean  sands  in 
the  Greek  sunsets  of  forgotten  times. 

"My  grandmother  died,  and  I  was  thrown  into  the  world 
without  resources,  and  with  no  capital  but  my  spectacles. 
I  tried  to  find  employment,  but  men  were  shy  of  me.  There 
was  a  vague  suspicion  that  I  was  either  a  little  crazed,  or  a 
good  deal  in  league  with  the  Prince  of  Darkness.  My  com 
panions  who  would  persist  in  calling  a  piece  of  painted  mus 
lin  a  fair  and  fragrant  flower  had  no  difficulty;  success 
waited  for  them  around  every  corner,  and  arrived  in  every 
ship.  I  tried  to  teach,  for  I  loved  children.  But  if  anything 
excited  my  suspicion,  and,  putting  on  my  spectacles,  I  saw 
that  I  was  fondling  a  snake,  or  smelling  at  a  bud  with  a 
worm  in  it,  I  sprang  up  in  horror  and  ran  away;  or,  if  it 
seemed  to  me  through  the  glasses  that  a  cherub  smiled  upon 
me,  or  a  rose  was  blooming  in  my  buttonhole,  then  I  felt 
myself  imperfect  and  impure,  not  fit  to  be  leading  and  train 
ing  what  was  so  essentially  superior  in  quality  to  myself, 
and  I  kissed  the  children  and  left  them  weeping  and  won 
dering. 

"In  despair  I  went  to  a  great  merchant  on  the  island,  and 
asked  him  to  employ  me. 

"  'My  young  friend,'  said  he,  'I  understand  that  you  have 
some  singular  secret,  some  charm,  or  spell,  or  gift,  or  some- 
tiling,  I  don't  know  what,  of  which  people  are  afraid.  Now, 
you  know,  my  dear,'  said  the  merchant,  swelling  up,  and 
apparently  prouder  of  his  great  stomach  than  of  his  large 
fortune,  'I  am  not  of  that  kind.  I  am  not  easily  frightened. 
You  may  spare  yourself  the  pain  of  trying  to  impose  upon 
me.  People  who  propose  to  come  to  time  before  I  arrive, 
are  accustomed  to  arise  very  early  in  the  morning,'  said  he, 
thrusting  his  thumbs  hi  the  armholes  of  his  waistcoat,  and 
spreading  the  fingers,  like  two  fans,  upon  his  bosom.  'I 
(think  I  have  heard  something  of  your  secret.  You  have  a 
pair  of  spectacles,  I  believe,  that  you  value  very  much,  be 
cause  your  grandmother  brought  them  as  a  marriage  por- 


68      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

tion  to  your  grandfather.  Now,  if  you  think  fit  to  sell  me 
those  spectacles,  I  will  pay  you  the  largest  market  price  for 
glasses.  What  do  you  say?' 

"I  told  him  that  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of  selling  my 
spectacles. 

"  'My  young  friend  means  to  eat  them,  I  suppose,'  said 
he  with  a  contemptuous  smile. 

"I  made  no  reply,  but  was  turning  to  leave  the  office,  when 
the  merchant  called  after  me — 

"  'My  young  friend,  poor  people  should  never  suffer  them 
selves  to  get  into  pets.  Anger  is  an  expensive  luxury,  in 
which  only  men  of  a  certain  income  can  indulge.  A  pair  of 
spectacles  and  a  hot  temper  are  not  the  most  promising  capi 
tal  for  success  in  life,  Master  Titbottom.' 

"I  said  nothing,  but  put  my  hand  upon  the  door  to  go 
out,  when  the  merchant  said  more  respectfully, — 

"  'Well,  you  foolish  boy,  if  you  will  not  sell  your  spec 
tacles,  perhaps  you  will  agree  to  sell  the  use  of  them  to  me. 
That  is,  you  shall  only  put  them  on  when  I  direct  you,  and 
for  my  purposes.  Hallo!  you  little  fool!'  cried  he  impa 
tiently,  as  he  saw  that  I  intended  to  make  no  reply. 

"But  I  had  pulled  out  my  spectacles,  and  put  them  on  for 
my  own  purpose,  and  against  his  direction  and  desire.  I 
looked  at  him,  and  saw  a  huge  bald-headed  wild  boar,  with 
gross  chops  and  a  leering  eye — only  the  more  ridiculous  for 
the  high-arched,  gold-bowed  spectacles,  that  straddled  his 
nose.  One  of  his  fore  hoofs  was  thrust  into  the  safe,  where 
his  bills  payable  were  hived,  and  the  other  into  his  pocket, 
among  the  loose  change  and  bills  there.  His  ears  were 
pricked  forward  with  a  brisk,  sensitive  smartness.  In  a 
world  where  prize  pork  was  the  best  excellence,  he  would 
have  carried  off  all  'the  premiums. 

"I  stepped  into  the  next  office  in  the  street,  and  a  mild- 
faced,  genial  man,  also  a  large  and  opulent  merchant,  asked 
me  my  business  in  such  a  tone,  that  I  instantly  looked 
through  my  spectacles,  and  saw  a  land  flowing  with  milk 
and  honey.  There  I  pitched  my  tent,  and  stayed  till  the 
good  man  died,  and  his  business  was  discontinued. 

"But  while  there,"  said  Titbottom,  and  his  voice  trembled 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES  69 

away  into  a  sigh,  "I  first  saw  Pretiosa.  Spite  of  the  spec 
tacles,  I  saw  Preciosa.  For  days,  for  weeks,  for  months, 
I  did  not  take  my  spectacles  with  me.  I  ran  away  from 
them,  I  threw  them  up  on  high  shelves,  I  tried  to  make  up 
my  mind  to  throw  them  into  the  sea,  or  down  the  well.  I 
could  not,  I  would  not,  I  dared  not  look  at  Preciosa  through 
the  spectacles.  It  was  not  possible  for  me  deliberately  to 
destroy  them;  but  I  awoke  in  the  night,  and  could  almost 
have  cursed  my  dear  old  grandfather  for  his  gift.  I  escaped 
from  the  office,  and  sat  for  whole  days  with  Preciosa.  I 
told  her  the  strange  things  I  had  seen  with  my  mystic  glasses. 
The  hours  were  not  enough  for  the  wild  romances  which  I 
raved  in  her  ear.  She  listened,  astonished  and  appalled.  Her 
blue  eyes  turned  upon  me  with  a  sweet  deprecation.  She 
clung  to  me,  and  then  withdrew,  and  fled  fearfully  from  the 
room.  But  she  could  not  stay  away.  She  could  not  resist 
my  voice,  in  whose  tones  burned  all  the  love  that  filled  my 
heart  and  brain.  The  very  effort  to  resist  the  desire  of  see 
ing  her  as  I  saw  everybody  else,  gave  a  frenzy  and  an  un 
natural  tension  to  my  feeling  and  my  manner.  I  sat  by 
'her  side,  looking  into  her  eyes,  smoothing  her  hair,  folding 
her  to  my  heart,  which  was  sunken  and  deep — why  not 
forever? — in  that  dream  of  peace.  I  ran  from  her  presence, 
and  shouted,  and  leaped  with  joy,  and  sat  the  whole  night 
through,  thrilled  into  'happiness  by  the  thought  of  her  love 
and  loveliness,  like  a  wind-harp,  tightly  strung,  and  an 
swering  the  airiest  sigh  of  the  breeze  with  music.  Then 
came  calmer  days — the  conviction  of  deep  love  settled  upon 
our  lives — as  after  the  hurrying,  heaving  days  of  spring, 
comes  the  bland  and  benignant  summer. 

"  'It  is  no  dream,  then,  after  all,  and  we  are  happy,'  I 
said  to  her,  one  day;  and  there  came  no  answer,  for  happi 
ness  is  speechless. 

"We  are  happy  then,"  I  said  to  myself,  "there  is  no  ex 
citement  now.  How  glad  I  am  that  I  can  now  look  at  her 
through  my  spectacles." 

"I  feared  lest  some  instinct  should  warn  me  to  beware. 
I  escaped  from  her  arms,  and  ran  home  and  seized  the 
glasses  and  bounded  back  again  to  Preciosa.  As  I  entered 


70      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

the  room  I  was  heated,  my  head  was  swimming  with  con 
fused  apprehension,  my  eyes  must  have  glared.  Preciosa 
was  frightened,  and  rising  from  her  seat,  stood  wfth  an  in 
quiring  glance  of  surprise  in  her  eyes.  But  I  was  bent  with 
frenzy  upon  my  purpose.  I  was  merely  aware  that  she  was 
in  the  room.  I  saw  nothing  else.  I  heard  nothing.  I  cared 
for  nothing,  but  to  see  her  through  that  magic  glass,  and 
feel  at  once,  all  the  fulness  of  blissful  perfection  which  that 
would  reveal.  Preciosa  stood  before  the  mirror,  but  alarmed 
at  my  wild  and  eager  movements,  unable  to  distinguish 
what  I  had  in  my  hands,  and  seeing  me  raise  them  suddenly 
to  my  face,  she  shrieked  with  terror,  and  fell  fainting  upon 
the  floor,  at  the  very  moment  that  I  placed  the  glasses  be 
fore  my  eyes,  and  beheld — myself,  reflected  in  the  mirror, 
before  which  she  had  been  standing. 

"Dear  madam,"  cried  Titbottom,  to  my  wife,  springing 
up  and  falling  back  again  in  his  chair,  pale  and  trembling, 
while  Prue  ran  to  him  and  took  his  hand,  and  I  poured  out 
a  glass  of  water — "I  saw  myself." 

There  was  silence  for  many  minutes.  Prue  laid  her  hand 
gently  upon  the  head  of  our  guest,  whose  eyes  were  closed, 
and  who  breathed  softly,  like  an  infant  in  sleeping.  Per 
haps,  hi  all  the  long  years  of  anguish  since  that  hour,  no 
tender  hand  had  touched  his  brow,  nor  wiped  away  the 
damps  of  a  bitter  sorrow.  Perhaps  the  tender,  maternal 
fingers  of  my  wife  soothed  his  weary  head  with  the  con 
viction  that  he  felt  the  hand  of  his  mother  playing  with 
the  long  hair  of  her  boy  in  the  soft  West  Indian  morning. 
Perhaps  it  was  only  the  natural  relief  of  expressing  a  pent- 
up  sorrow.  When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  with  the  old,  sub 
dued  tone,  and  the  air  of  quaint  solemnity. 

"These  things  were  matters  of  long,  long  ago,  and  I  came 
to  this  country  soon  after.  I  brought  with  me,  premature 
age,  a  past  of  melancholy  memories,  and  the  magic  spec 
tacles.  I  had  become  their  slave.  I  had  nothing  more  to 
fear.  Having  seen  myself,  I  was  compelled  to  see  others, 
properly  to  understand  my  relations  to  them.  The  lights 
that  chee"'  the  future  of  other  men  had  gone  out  for  me. 
My  *YP»  irere  those  of  an  exile  turned  backwards  upon  the 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES  71 

receding  shore,  and  not  forwards  with  hope  upon  the  ocean. 
I  mingled  with  men,  but  with  little  pleasure.  There  are 
but  many  varieties  of  a  few  types.  I  did  not  find  those  I 
came  to  clearer  sighted  than  those  I  had  left  behind.  I 
heard  men  called  shrewd  and  wise,  and  report  said  they 
were  highly  intelligent  and  successful.  But  when  I  looked 
at  them  through  my  glasses,  I  found  no  halo  of  real  man 
liness.  My  finest  sense  detected  no  aroma  of  purity  and 
principle;  but  I  saw  only  a  fungus  that  had  fattened  and 
spread  in  a  night.  They  all  went  to  the  theater  to  see  actors 
upon  the  stage.  I  went  to  see  actors  in  the  boxes,  so  con 
summately  cunning,  that  the  others  did  not  know  they  were 
acting,  and  they  did  not  suspect  it  themselves. 

"Perhaps  you  wonder  it  did  not  make  me  misanthropical. 
My  dear  friends,  do  not  forget  that  I  had  seen  myself.  It 
made  me  compassionate,  not  cynical.  Of  course  I  could 
not  value  highly  the  ordinary  standards  of  success  and  ex 
cellence.  When  I  went  to  church  and  saw  a  thin,  blue, 
artificial  flower,  or  a  great  sleepy  cushion  expounding  the. 
beauty  of  holiness  to  pews  full  of  eagles,  half-eagles,  and 
threepences,  however  adroitly  concealed  in  broadcloth  and 
boots:  or  saw  an  onion  in  an  Easter  bonnet  weeping  over 
the  sins  of  Magdalen,  I  did  not  feel  as  they  felt  who  saw  in 
all  this,  not  only  propriety,  but  piety.  Or  when  at  public 
meetings  an  eel  stood  up  on  end,  and  wriggled  and  squirmed 
lithely  in  every  direction,  and  declared  that,  for  his  part, 
he  went  in  for  rainbows  and  hot  water — how  could 
I  help  seeing  that  he  was  still  black  and  loved  a  slimy 
pool? 

"I  could  not  grow  misanthropical  when  I  saw  in  the  eyes 
of  so  many  who  were  called  old,  the  gushing  fountains  of 
eternal  youth,  and  'the  light  of  an  immortal  dawn,  or  when 
I  saw  those  who  were  esteemed  unsuccessful  and  aimless, 
ruling  a  fair  realm  of  peace  and  plenty,  either  in  themselves, 
or  more  perfectly  in  another — a  realm  and  princely  pos 
session  for  which  they  had  well  renounced  a  hopeless  search 
and  a  belated  triumph.  I  knew  one  man  who  had  been  for 
years  a  by-word  for  having  sought  the  philosopher's  stone. 
But  I  looked  at  him  through  the  spectacles  and  saw  a  satis- 


72      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

faction  in  concentrated  energies,  and  a  tenacity  arising  front 
devotion  to  a  noble  dream,  which  was  not  apparent  in  the 
youths  who  pitied  him  in  the  aimless  effeminacy  of  clubs, 
nor  in  the  clever  gentlemen  who  cracked  their  thin  jokes 
upon  him  over  a  gossiping  dinner. 

"And  there  was  your  neighbor  over  the  way,  who  passes 
for  a  woman  Who  has  failed  in  her  career,  because  she  is  an 
old  maid.  People  wag  solemn  heads  of  pity,  and  say  that 
she  made  so  great  a  mistake  in  not  marrying  the  brilliant 
and  famous  man  who  was  for  long  years  her  suitor.  It  is 
clear  that  no  orange  flower  will  ever  bloom  for  her.  The 
young  people  make  tender  romances  about  her  as  they  watch 
her,  and  think  of  her  solitary  hours  of  bitter  regret,  and 
wasting  longing,  never  to  be  satisfied.  When  I  first  came 
to  town  I  shared  this  sympathy,  and  pleased  my  imagina 
tion  with  fancying  her  hard  struggle  with  the  conviction 
that  she  had  lost  all  that  made  life  beautiful.  I  supposed 
that  if  I  looked  at  her  through  my  spectacles,  I  should  see 
that  it  was  only  her  radiant  temper  which  so  illuminated 
her  dress,  that  we  did  not  see  it  to  be  heavy  sables.  But 
when,  one  day,  I  did  raise  my  glasses  and  glanced  at  her, 
I  did  not  see  the  old  maid  whom  we  all  pitied  for  a  secret 
sorrow,  but  a  woman  whose  nature  was  a  tropic,  in  which 
the  sun  shone,  and  birds  sang,  and  flowers  bloomed  forever. 
There  were  no  regrets,  no  doubts  and  half  wishes,  but  a 
calm  sweetness,  a  transparent  peace.  I  saw  her  blush  when 
that  old  lover  passed  by,  or  paused  to  speak  to  her,  but  it 
was  only  the  sign  of  delicate  feminine  consciousness.  She 
knew  his  love,  and  honored  it,  although  she  could  not  under 
stand  it  nor  return  it.  I  looked  closely  at  her,  and  I  saw 
•that  although  all  .the  world  had  exclaimed  at  her  indiffer 
ence  to  such  homage,  and  had  declared  it  was  astonishing 
she  should  lose  so  fine  a  match,  she  would  only  say  simply 
and  quietly — 

"  'If  Shakespeare  loved  me  and  I  did  not  love  him,  how 
could  I  marry  him?' 

"Could  I  be  misanthropical  when  I  saw  such  fidelity,  and 
dignity,  and  simplicity? 

"You  may  believe  that  I  was  especially  curious  to  look  at 


that  old  lover  of  hers,  through  my  glasses.  He  was  no 
longer  young,  you  know,  when  I  came,  and  his  fame  and 
fortune  were  secure.  Certainly  I  have  heard  of  few  men 
more  beloved,  and  of  none  more  worthy  to  be  loved.  He 
had  the  easy  manner  of  a  man  of  the  world,  the  sensitive 
grace  of  a  poet,  and  the  charitable  judgment  of  a  wide 
traveller.  He  was  accounted  the  most  successful  and  most 
unspoiled  of  men.  Handsome,  brilliant,  wise,  tender,  grace 
ful,  accomplished,  rich,  and  famous,  I  looked  at  him,  with 
out  the  spectacles,  in  surprise,  and  admiration,  and  won 
dered  how  your  neighbor  over  the  way  had  been  so  entirely 
untouched  by  his  homage.  I  watched  'their  intercourse  in 
society,  I  saw  her  gay  smile,  her  cordial  greeting;  I  marked 
his  frank  address,  his  lofty  courtesy.  Their  manner  told  no 
tales.  The  eager  world  was  balked,  and  I  pulled  out  my 
spectacles. 

"I  had  seen  her,  already,  and  now  I  saw  him.  He  lived 
only  in  memory,  and  his  memory  was  a  spacious  and  stately 
palace.  But  he  did  not  oftenest  frequent  the  banqueting 
hall,  where  were  endless  hospitality  and  feasting — nor  did 
he  loiter  much  in  reception  rooms,  where  a  throng  of  new 
visitors  was  forever  swarming — nor  did  he  feed  his  vanity 
by  haunting  the  apartment  in  which  were  stored  the  trophies 
of  his  varied  triumphs — nor  dream  much  in  the  great  gal 
lery  hung  with  pictures  of  his  travels.  But  from  all  these 
lofty  halls  of  memory  he  constantly  escaped  to  a  remote  and 
solitary  chamber,  into  which  no  one  had  ever  penetrated. 
But  my  fata)  eyes,  behind  the  glasses,  followed  and  entered 
with  him,  and  saw  that  the  chamber  was  a  chapel.  It  was 
idim,  and  silent,  and  sweet  with  perpetual  incense  that  burned 
upon  an  altar  before  a  picture  forever  veiled.  There,  when 
ever  I  chanced  to  look,  I  saw  him  kneel  and  pray;  and  there, 
by  day  and  by  night,  a  funeral  hymn  was  chanted. 

"I  do  not  believe  you  will  be  surprised  that  I  have  been 
content  to  remain  deputy  bookkeeper.  My  spectacles  regu 
lated  my  ambition,  and  I  early  learned  that  there  were  bet 
ter  gods  than  Plutus.  The  glasses  have  lost  much  of  their 
fascination  now,  and  I  do  not  often  use  them.  Sometimes 
the  desire  is  irresistible.  Whenever  I  am  greatly  interested, 


74      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

I  am  compelled  to  take  them  out  and  see  what  it  is  that  I 
admire. 

"And  yet — and  yet,"  said  Titbottom,  after  a  pause,  "I  am 
not  sure  that  I  thank  my  grandfather." 

Prue  had  long  since  laid  away  her  work,  and  had  heard 
every  word  of  the  story.  I  saw  that  the  dear  woman  had 
yet  one  question  to  ask,  and  had  been  earnestly  hoping  to 
hear  something  that  would  spare  her  the  necessity  of  ask 
ing.  But  Titbottom  had  resumed  his  usual  tone,  after  the 
momentary  excitement,  and  made  no  further  allusion  to  him 
self.  We  all  sat  silently;  Titbottom's  eyes  fastened  mus 
ingly  upon  the  carpet:  Prue  looking  wistfully  at  him,  and  I 
regarding  both. 

It  was  past  midnight,  and  our  guest  arose  to  go.  He 
shook  hands  quietly,  made  his  grave  Spanish  bow  to  Prue, 
and  taking  his  hat,  went  towards  the  front  door.  Prue  and 
I  accompanied  him.  I  saw  in  her  eyes  that  she  would  ask 
her  question.  And  as  Titbottom  opened  the  door,  I  heard 
the  low  words: 

"And  Preciosa?" 

Titbottom  paused.  He  had  just  opened  the  door  and  the 
moonlight  streamed  over  him  as  he  stood,  turning  back  to  us. 

"I  have  seen  her  but  once  since.  It  was  in  church,  and 
she  was  kneeling  with  her  eyes  closed,  so  that  she  did  not 
see  me.  But  I  rubbed  the  glasses  well,  and  looked  at  her, 
and  saw  a  white  lily,  whose  stem  was  broken,  but  which  was 
fresh;  and  luminous,  and  fragrant,  still." 

"That  was  a  miracle,"  interrupted  Prue. 

"Madam,  it  was  a  miracle,"  replied  Titbottom,  "and  for 
that  one  sight  I  am  devoutly  grateful  for  my  grandfather's 
gift.  I  saw,  that  although  a  flower  may  have  lost  its  hold 
upon  earthly  moisture,  it  may  still  bloom  as  sweetly,  fed 
by  the  dews  of  heaven." 

The  door  closed,  and  he  was  gone.  But  as  Prue  put  her 
arm  in  mine  and  we  went  upstairs  together,  she  whispered 
in  my  ear: 

"How  glad  I  am  that  you  don't  wear  spectacles." 


BY  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE  (1822-1909) 

IT  IS  not  often  that  I  trouble  the  readers  of  The  Atlantic 
Monthly.  I  should  not  trouble  them  now,  but  for  the  im 
portunities  of  my  wife,  who  "feels  to  insist"  that  a  duty 
to  society  is  unfulfilled,  till  I  have  told  why  I  had  to  have  a 
double,  and  how  he  undid  me.  She  is  sure,  she  says,  that 
intelligent  persons  cannot  understand  that  pressure  upon 
public  servants  which  alone  drives  any  man  into  the  em 
ployment  of  a  double.  And  while  I  fear  she  thinks,  at  the 
bottom  of  her  heart,  that  my  fortunes  will  never  be  re-made, 
she  has  a  faint  hope,  that,  as  another  Rasseias,  I  may  teach 
a  lesson  to  future  publics,  from  which  they  may  profit, 
though  we  die.  Owing  to  the  behavior  of  my  double,  or,  if 
you  please,  to  that  public  pressure  which  compelled  me  to 
employ  him,  I  have  plenty  of  leisure  to  write  this  communi 
cation. 

I  am,  or  rather  was,  a  minister,  of  the  Sandemanian  con 
nection.  I  was  settled  in  the  active,  wide-awake  town  of 
Naguadavick,  on  one  of  the  finest  water-powers  in  Maine. 
We  used  to  call  it  a  Western  town  in  the  heart  of  the  civili 
zation  of  New  England.  A  charming  place  it  was  and  is. 
A  spirited,  brave  young  parish  had  I;  and  it  seemed  as  if 
we  might  have  all  "the  joy  of  eventful  living"  to  our  hearts' 
content. 


From  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  September,  1859.  Republished  in 
the  volume,  The  Man  Without  a  Country,  and  Other  Tales 
(1868),  by  Edward  Everett  Hale  (Little,  Brown  &  Co.). 

75 


76      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

Alas!  how  little  we  knew  on  the  day  of  my  ordination, 
and  in  those  halcyon  moments  of  our  first  housekeeping!  To 
be  the  confidential  friend  in  a  hundred  families  in  the  town 
— cutting  the  social  trifle,  as  my  friend  Haliburton  says, 
J'from  the  top  of  the  whipped-syllabub  to  the  bottom  of  the 
sponge-cake,  which  is  the  foundation" — to  keep  abreast  of 
the  thought  of  the  age  in  one's  study,  and  to  do  one's  best 
on  Sunday  to  interweave  that  thought  with  the  active  life 
of  an  active  town,  and  to  inspirit  both  and  make  both  in 
finite  by  glimpses  of  the  Eternal  Glory,  seemed  such  an  ex 
quisite  forelook  into  one's  life!  Enough  to  do,  and  all  so 
real  and  so  grand!  If  this  vision  could  only  have  lasted! 

The  truth  is,  that  this  vision  was  not  in  itself  a  delusion, 
nor,  indeed,  half  bright  enough.  If  one  could  only  have 
been  left  to  do  his  own  business,  the  vision  would  have 
accomplished  itself  and  brought  out  new  paraheliacal  visions, 
each  as  bright  as  the  original.  The  misery  was  and  is,  as  we 
found  out,  I  and  Polly,  before  long,  that,  besides  the  vision, 
and  besides  the  usual  human  and  finite  failures  in  life  (such 
as  breaking  the  old  pitcher  that  came  over  in  the  Mayflower, 
and  putting  into  the  fire  the  alpenstock  with  which  her 
father  climbed  Mont  Blanc) — besides,  these,  I  say  (imi 
tating  the  style  of  Robinson  Crusoe),  there  were  pitch 
forked  in  on  us  a  great  rowen-heap  of  humbugs,  handed  down 
from  some  unknown  seed-time,  in  which  we  were  expected, 
and  I  chiefly,  to  fulfil  certain  public  functions  before  the 
community,  of  the  character  of  those  fulfilled  by  the  third 
row  of  supernumeraries  who  stand  behind  the  Sepoys  in  the 
spectacle  of  the  Cataract  of  the  Ganges.  They  were  the 
duties,  in  a  word,  which  one  performs  as  member  of  one  or 
another  social  class  or  subdivision,  wholly  distinct  from  what 
one  does  as  A.  by  himself  A.  What  invisible  power  put  these 
functions  on  me,  it  would  be  very  hard  to  tell.  But  such 
power  there  was  and  is.  And  I  had  not  been  at  work  a 
year  before  I  found  I  was  living  two  lives,  one  real  and  one 
merely  functional — for  two  sets  of  people,  one  my  parish, 
whom  I  loved,  and  the  other  a  vague  public,  for  whom  I 
did  not  care  two  straws.  All  this  was  in  a  vague  notion, 
which  everybody  had  and  has,  that  this  second  life  would 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME     77 

eventually  bring  out  some  great  results,  unknown  at  present, 
to  somebody  somewhere. 

Crazed  by  this  duality  of  life,  I  first  read  Dr.  Wigan  on 
the  Duality  of  the  Brain,  hoping  that  I  could  train  one  side 
of  my  head  to  do  these  outside  jobs,  and  the  other  to  do 
my  intimate  and  real  duties.  For  Richard  Greenough  once 
told  me  that,  in  studying  for  the  statue  of  Franklin,  he 
found  that  the  left  side  of  the  great  man's  face  was  philo 
sophic  and  reflective,  and  the  right  side  funny  and  smiling. 
If  you  will  go  and  look  at  the  bronze  statue,  you  will  find 
he  has  repeated  this  observation  there  for  posterity.  The 
eastern  profile  is  the  portrait  of  the  statesman  Franklin,  the 
western  of  Poor  Richard.  But  Dr.  Wigan  does  not  go  into 
these  niceties  of  this  subject,  and  I  failed.  It  was  then  that, 
on  my  wife's  suggestion,  I  resolved  to  look  out  for  a  Double. 

I  was,  at  first,  singularly  successful.  We  happened  to  be 
recreating  at  Stafford  Springs  that  summer.  We  rode  out 
one  day,  for  one  of  the  relaxations  of  that  watering-place, 
to  the  great  Monsonpon  House.  We  were  passing  through 
one  of  the  large  halls,  when  my  destiny  was  fulfilled!  I 
saw  my  man! 

He  was  not  shaven.  He  had  on  no  spectacles.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  green  baize  roundabout  and  faded  blue  over 
alls,  worn  sadly  at  the  knee.  But  I  saw  at  once  that  he  was 
of  my  height,  five  feet  four  and  a  half.  He  had  black  hair, 
worn  off  by  his  hat.  So  have  and  'have  not  I.  He  stooped 
in  walking.  So  do  I.  His  hands  were  large,  and  mine. 
And — choicest  gift  of  Fate  in  all — he  had,  not  "a  straw 
berry-mark  on  his  left  arm,"  but  a  cut  from  a  juvenile' 
brickbat  over  his  right  eye,  slightly  affecting  the  play  of 
that  eyebrow.  Reader,  so  have  I! — My  fate  was  sealed! 

A  word  with  Mr.  Holley,  one  of  the  inspectors,  settled 
the  Whole  thing.  It  proved  that  this  Dennis  Shea  was  a 
harmless,  amiable  fellow,  of  the  class  known  as  shiftless, 
who  had  sealed  his  fate  by  marrying  a  dumb  wife,  who  was 
at  that  moment  ironing  in  the  laundry.  Before  I  left  Staf 
ford,  I  had  hired  both  for  five  years.  We  had  applied  to 
Judge  Pynchon,  then  the  probate  judge  at  Springfield,  to 
change  'the  name  of  Dennis  Shea  to  Frederic  Ingham.  We 


78      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

had  explained  to  the  Judge,  what  was  the  precise  truth,  that 
an  eccentric  gentleman  wished  to  adopt  Dennis  under  this 
new  name  into  his  family.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that 
Dennis  might  be  more  than  fourteen  years  old.  And  'thus, 
to  shorten  this  preface,  when  we  returned  at  night  to  my 
parsonage  at  Naguadavick,  there  entered  Mrs.  Ingham,  her 
new  dumb  laundress,  myself,  who  am  Mr.  Frederic  Ingham, 
and  my  double,  who  was  Mr.  Frederic  Ingham  by  as  good 
right  as  I. 

Oh,  the  fun  we  had  the  next  morning  in  shaving  his  beard 
to  my  pattern,  cutting  his  hair  to  match  mine,  and  teaching 
him  how  to  wear  and  how  to  take  off  gold-bowed  spectacles! 
Really,  they  were  electroplate,  and  the  glass  was  plain  (for 
the  poor  fellow's  eyes  were  excellent).  Then  in  four  suc 
cessive  afternoons  I  taught  him  four  speeches.  I  had  found 
these  would  be  quite  enough  for  the  supernumerary-Sepoy 
line  of  life,  and  it  was  well  for  me  they  were.  For  though 
he  was  good-natured,  he  was  very  shiftless,  and  it  was,  as 
our  national  proverb  says,  "like  pulling  teeth"  to  teach  him. 
But  at  the  end  of  the  next  week  he  could  say,  with  quite 
my  easy  and  frisky  air: 

1.  "Very  well,  thank  you.    And  you?"    This  for  an  an 
swer  to  casual  salutations. 

2.  "I  am  very  glad  you  liked  it." 

3.  "There  has  been  so  much  said,  and,  on  the  whole,  so 
well  said,  that  I  will  not  occupy  the  time." 

4.  "I  agree,  in  general,  with  my  friend  on  the  other  side 
of  the  room." 

At  first  I  had  a  feeling  that  I  was  going  to  be  at  great 
cost  for  clothing  him.  But  it  proved,  of  course,  at  once, 
that,  whenever  he  was  out,  I  should  be  at  home.  And  I 
went,  during  the  bright  period  of  his  success,  to  so  few  of 
those  awful  pageants  which  require  a  black  dress-coat  and 
what  the  ungodly  call,  after  Mr.  Dickens,  a  white  choker, 
that  in  the  happy  retreat  of  my  own  dressing-gowns  and 
jackets  my  days  went  by  as  happily  and  cheaply  as  those 
of  another  Thalaba.  And  Polly  declares  there  was  never  a 
year  when  the  tailoring  cost  so  little.  He  lived  (Dennis,  not 
Thalaba)  in  his  wife's  room  over  the  kitchen.  He  had  orders 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME      79 

never  to  show  himself  at  that  window.  When  he  ap 
peared  in  the  front  of  the  house,  I  retired  to  my  sanctissi- 
mum  and  my  dressing-gown.  In  short,  the  Dutchman  and 
!his  wife,  in  the  old  weather-box,  had  not  less  to  do  with 
each  other  than  he  and  I.  He  made  the  furnace-fire  and 
split  the  wood  before  daylight;  then  he  went  to  sleep  again, 
and  slept  late;  then  came  for  orders,  with  a  red  silk  ban 
danna  tied  round  his  head,  with  his  overalls  on,  and  his 
dress-coat  and  spectacles  off.  If  we  happened  to  be  inter- 
j  rupted,  no  one  guessed  that  he  was  Frederic  Ingham  as  well 
I  as  I;  and,  in  the  neighborhood,  there  grew  up  an  impression 
that  the  minister's  Irishman  worked  day-times  in  the  factory- 
village  at  New  Coventry.  After  I  had  given  him  his  or 
ders,  I  never  saw  him  till  the  next  day. 

I  launched  him  by  sending  him  to  a  meeting  of  the  En 
lightenment  Board.  The  Enlightenment  Board  consists  of 
seventy-four  members,  of  whom  sixty-seven  are  necessary  to 
form  a  quorum.  One  becomes  a  member  under  the  regu 
lations  laid  down  in  old  Judge  Dudley's  will.  I  became 
one  by  being  ordained  pastor  of  a  church  in  Naguadavick. 
You  see  you  cannot  help  yourself,  if  you  would.  At  this 
particular  time  we  had  had  four  successive  meetings,  aver 
aging  four  hours  each — wholly  occupied  in  whipping  in  a 
quorum.  At  the  first  only  eleven  men  were  present;  at  the 
next,  by  force  of  three  circulars,  twenty-seven;  at  the  third, 
thanks  to  two  days'  canvassing  by  Auchmuty  and  myself, 
begging  men  to  come,  we  had  sixty.  Half  the  others  were 
in  Europe.  But  without  a  quorum  we  could  do  nothing. 
All  the  rest  of  us  waited  grimly  for  our  four  hours,  and  ad 
journed  without  any  action.  At  the  fourth  meeting  we  had 
flagged,  and  only  got  fifty-nine  together.  But  on  the  first 
appearance  of  my  double — whom  I  sent  on  this  fatal  Mon 
day  to  the  fifth  meeting — he  was  the  sixty-seventh  man  who 
entered  the  room.  He  was  greeted  with  a  storm  of  ap 
plause!  The  poor  fellow  had  missed  his  way — read  the 
street  signs  ill  through  his  spectacles  (very  ill,  in  fact, 
without  them) — and  had  not  dared  to  inquire.  He  en 
tered  the  room — finding  the  president  and  secretary  holding 
"to  their  chairs  two  judges  of  the  Supreme  Court,  who  were 


8o      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

also  members  ex  officio,  and  were  begging  leave  to  go  away. 
On  his  entrance  all  was  changed.  Presto,  the  by-laws 
were  amended,  and  the  Western  property  was  given 
away.  Nobody  stopped  to  converse  with  him.  He  voted,  as 
I  had  charged  him  to  do,  in  every  instance,  with  the  minor 
ity.  I  won  new  laurels  as  a  man  of  sense,  though  a  little 
unpunctual — and  Dennis,  alias  Ingham,  returned  to  the  par 
sonage,  astonished  to  see  with  how  little  wisdom  the  world  is 
governed.  He  cut  a  few  of  my  parishioners  in  the  street; 
but  he  had  his  glasses  off,  and  I  am  known  to  be  near 
sighted.  Eventually  he  recognized  them  more  readily  than  I. 

I  "set  him  again"  at  the  exhibition  of  the  New  Coventry 
Academy;  and  here  he  undertook  a  "speaking  part" — as, 
in  my  boyish,  worldly  days,  I  remember  the  bills  used  to  say 
of  Mile.  Celeste.  We  are  all  trustees  of  the  New  Coventry 
Academy;  and  there  has  lately  been  "a  good  deal  of  feel 
ing"  because  the  Sandemanian  trustees  did  not  regularly  at 
tend  the  exhibitions.  It  has  been  intimated,  indeed,  that 
the  Sandemanians  are  leaning  towards  Free- Will,  and  that 
we  have,  therefore,  neglected  these  semi-annual  exhibitions, 
while  there  is  no  doubt  that  Auchmuty  last  year  went  to 
Commencement  at  Waterville.  Now  the  head  master  at  New 
Coventry  is  a  real  good  fellow,  who  knows  a  Sanskrit  root 
•when  he  sees  it,  and  often  cracks  etymologies  with  me — so 
that,  in  strictness,  I  ought  to  go  to  their  exhibitions.  But 
think,  reader,  of  sitting  through  three  long  July  days  in 
that  Academy  chapel,  following  the  program  from 

TUESDAY  MORNING.    ENGLISH  COMPOSITION.    Sunshine. 
Miss  Jones. 
round  to 

Trio  on  Three  Pianos.  Duel  from  opera  of  Midship 
man  Easy.  MARRYATT. 

coming  in  at  nine,  Thursday  evening!  Think  of  this,  reader, 
for  men  who  know  the  world  is  trying  to  go  backward,  and 
who  would  give  their  lives  if  they  could  help  it  on!  Well! 
The  double  had  succeeded  so  well  at  the  Board,  that  I  sent 
him  to  the  Academy.  (Shade  of  Plato,  pardon!)  He  ar 
rived  early  on  Tuesday,  when,  indeed,  few  but  mothers  and 
clergymen  are  generally  expected,  and  returned  in  the  evening 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME     8t 

to  us,  covered  with  honors.  He  had  dined  at  the  right 
hand  of  the  chairman,  and  he  spoke  in  high  terms  of  the 
repast.  The  chairman  had  expressed  his  interest  in  the 
French  conversation.  "I  am  very  glad  you  liked  it,"  said 
Dennis;  and  the  poor  chairman,  abashed,  supposed  the  ac 
cent  had  been  wrong.  At  the  end  of  the  day,  the  gentle 
men  present  had  been  called  upon  for  speeches — the  Rev. 
Frederic  Ingham  first,  as  it  happened;  upon  which  Dennis 
had  risen,  and  had  said,  "There  has  been  so  much  said,  and, 
on  the  whole,  so  well  said,  that  I  will  not  occupy  the  time." 
The  girls  were  delighted,  because  Dr.  Dabney,  the  year  be 
fore,  had  given  them  at  this  occasion  a  scolding  on  impro 
priety  of  behavior  at  lyceum  lectures.  They  all  declared 
Mr.  Ingham  was  a  love — and  so  handsome!  (Dennis  is 
good-looking.)  Three  of  them,  with  arms  behind  the  oth 
ers'  waists,  followed  him  up  to  the  wagon  he  rode  home  in; 
and  a  little  girl  with  a  blue  sash  had  been  sent  to  give  him 
a  rosebud.  After  this  debut  in  speaking,  he  went  to  the  ex 
hibition  for  two  days  more,  to  the  mutual  satisfaction  of 
all  concerned.  Indeed,  Polly  reported  that  he  had  pro 
nounced  the  trustees'  dinners  of  a  higher  grade  than  those  of 
the  parsonage.  When  the  next  term  began,  I  found  six  of 
the  Academy  girls  had  obtained  permission  to  come  across 
the  river  and  attend  our  church.  But  this  arrangement  did 
not  long  continue. 

After  this  he  went  to  several  Commencements  for  me, 
and  ate  the  dinners  provided;  he  sat  through  three  of  our 
Quarterly  Conventions  for  me — always  voting  judiciously, 
by  the  simple  rule  mentioned  above,  of  siding  with  the  mi 
nority.  And  I,  meanwhile,  who  had  before  been  losing  caste 
among  my  friends,  as  holding  myself  aloof  from  the  asso 
ciations  of  the  body,  began  to  rise  in  everybody's  favor. 
"Ingham's  a  good  fellow — always  on  hand";  "never  talks 
much — but  does  the  right  thing  at  the  right  time";  "is  not 
as  unpunctual  as  he  used  to  be — he  comes  early,  and  sits 
through  to  the  end."  "He  has  got  over  his  old  talkative 
habit,  too.  I  spoke  to  a  friend  of  his  about  it  once;  and  I 
think  Ingham  took  it  kindly,"  etc.,  etc. 

This  voting  power  of  Dennis  was  particularly  valuable  at 


82      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

the  quarterly  meetings  of  the  Proprietors  of  the  Naguadavick 
Ferry.  My  wife  inherited  from  her  father  some  shares  in 
that  enterprise,  which  is  not  yet  fully  developed,  though  it 
doubtless  will  become  a  very  valuable  property.  The  law 
of  Maine  then  forbade  stockholders  to  appear  by  proxy  at 
such  meetings.  Polly  disliked  to  go,  not  being,  in  fact,  a 
"hens'-rights  hen,"  and  transferred  her  stock  to  me.  I, 
after  going  once,  disliked  it  more  than  she.  But  Dennis 
went  to  the  next  meeting,  and  liked  it  very  much.  He  said 
the  armchairs  were  good,  the  collation  good,  and  the  free 
rides  to  stockholders  pleasant.  He  was  a  little  frightened 
when  they  first  took  him  upon  one  of  the  ferry-boats,  but 
after  two  or  three  quarterly  meetings  he  became  quite  brave. 
Thus  far  I  never  had  any  difficulty  with  him.  Indeed, 
being  of  that  type  which  is  called  shiftless,  he  was  only  too 
happy  to  be  told  daily  what  to  do,  and  to  be  charged  not 
to  be  forthputting  or  in  any  way  original  in  his  discharge 
of  that  duty.  He  learned,  however,  to  discriminate  be 
tween  the  lines  of  his  life,  and  very  much  preferred  these 
stockholders'  meetings  and  trustees'  dinners  and  com 
mencement  collations  to  another  set  of  occasions,  from  which 
he  used  to  beg  off  most  piteously.  Our  excellent  brother, 
Dr.  Fillmore,  had  taken  a  notion  at  this  time  that  our  Sand- 
emanian  churches  needed  more  expression  of  mutual  sym 
pathy.  He  insisted  upon  it  that  we  were  remiss.  He  said, 
that,  if  the  Bishop  came  to  preach  at  Naguadavick,  all  the 
Episcopal  clergy  of  the  neighborhood  were  present;  if  Dr. 
Pond  came,  all  the  Congregational  clergymen  turned  out  to 
hear  him;  if  Dr.  Nichols,  all  the  Unitarians;  and  he  thought 
we  owed  it  to  each  other  that,  whenever  there  was  an  oc 
casional  service  at  a  Sandemanian  church,  the  other  brethren: 
should  all,  if  possible,  attend.  "It  looked  well,"  if  nothing 
more.  Now  this  really  meant  that  I  had  not  been  to  hear 
one  of  Dr.  Fillmore's  lectures  on  the  Ethnology  of  Re 
ligion.  He  forgot  that  he  did  not  hear  one  of  my  course  on 
the  Sandemanianism  of  Anselm.  But  I  felt  badly  when  he 
said  it;  and  afterwards  I  always  made  Dennis  go  to  hear 
all  the  brethren  preach,  when  I  was  not  preaching  myself. 
This  was  what  he  took  exceptions  to — the  only  thing,  as  I 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME     83 

said,  which  he  ever  did  except  to.  Now  came  the  advan 
tage  of  his  long  morning-nap,  and  of  the  green  tea  with 
which  Polly  supplied  the  kitchen.  But  he  would  plead,  so 
humbly,  to  be  let  off,  only  from  one  or  two!  I  never  ex- 
cepted  him,  however.  I  knew  the  lectures  were  of  value,  and 
I  thought  it  best  he  should  be  able  to  keep  the  connection. 

Polly  is  more  rash  than  I  am,  as  the  reader  has  observed 
in  the  outset  of  this  memoir.  She  risked  Dennis  one  night 
under  the  eyes  of  her  own  sex.  Governor  Gorges  had  al 
ways  been  very  kind  to  us;  and  when  he  gave  his  great 
annual  party  to  the  town,  asked  us.  I  confess  I  hated  to 
go.  I  was  deep  in  the  new  volume  of  Pfeiffer's  Mystics, 
which  Haliburton  had  just  sent  me  from  Boston.  "But  how 
rude,"  said  Polly,  "not  to  return  the  Governor's  civility  and 
Mrs.  Gorges's,  when  they  will  be  sure  to  ask  why  you  are 
away!"  Still  I  demurred,  and  at  last  she,  with  the  wit  of 
Eve  and  of  Serm'ramis  conjoined,  let  me  off  by  saying  that, 
if  I  would  go  in  with  her,  and  sustain  the  initial  conversa 
tions  with  the  Governor  and  the  ladies  staying  there,  she 
would  risk  Dennis  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  And  that 
was  just  what  we  did.  She  took  Dennis  in  training  all  that 
afternoon,  instructed  him  in  fashionable  conversation,  cau 
tioned  him  against  the  temptations  of  the  supper-table— 
and  at  nine  in  the  evening  he  drove  us  all  down  in  the  carry' 
all.  I  made  the  grand  star-entree  with  Polly  and  the  pretty 
Walton  girls,  who  were  staying  with  us.  We  had  put  Den 
nis  into  a  great  rough  top-coat,  without  his  glasses — and 
the  girls  never  dreamed,  in  the  darkness,  of  looking  at  him, 
He  sat  in  the  carriage,  at  the  door,  while  we  entered.  I  did 
the  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Gorges,  was  introduced  to  her  niece, 
Miss  Fernanda — I  complimented  Judge  Jeffries  on  his  deci 
sion  in  the  great  case  of  D'Aulnay  vs.  Laconia  Mining  Co. — 
I  stepped  into  the  dressing-room  for  a  moment — stepped  out 
for  another — walked  home,  after  a  nod  with  Dennis,  and 
tying  the  horse  to  a  pump — and  while  I  walked  home,  Mr. 
Frederic  Ingham,  my  double,  stepped  in  through  the  library 
into  the  Gorges's  grand  saloon. 

Oh!  Polly  died  of  laughing  as  she  told  me  of  it  at  mid 
night!  And  even  here,  where  I  have  to  teach  my  hands  to 


84      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

hew  the  beech  for  stakes  to  fence  our  cave,  she  dies  of  laugh 
ing  as  she  recalls  it — and  says  that  single  occasion  was  worth 
all  we  have  paid  for  it.  Gallant  Eve  that  she  is!  She 
joined  Dennis  at  the  library  door,  and  in  an  instant  pre 
sented  him  to  Dr.  Ochterlong,  from  Baltimore,  who  was  on 
a  visit  in  town,  and  was  talking  with  her,  as  Dennis  came  in. 
"Mr.  Ingham  would  like  to  hear  what  you  were  telling  us 
about  your  success  among  the  German  population."  And 
Dennis  bowed  and  said,  in  spite  of  a  scowl  from  Polly,  "I'm 
very  glad  you  liked  it."  But  Dr.  Ochterlong  did  not  observe, 
and  plunged  into  the  tide  of  explanation,  Dennis  listening 
like  a  prime-minister,  and  bowing  like  a  mandarin — which 
is,  I  suppose,  the  same  thing.  Polly  declared  it  was  just 
like  Haliburton's  Latin  conversation  with  the  Hungarian 
minister,  of  which  he  is  very  fond  of  telling.  "Qucene  sit  his- 
toria  Reformationis  in  Ungarid?"  quoth  Haliburton,  after 
some  thought.  And  his  confrere  replied  gallantly,  "In  seculo 
decimo  tertio,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc.;  and  from  decimo  tertio*  to 
the  nineteenth  century  and  a  half  lasted  till  the  oysters 
came.  So  was  it  that  before  Dr.  Ochterlong  came  to  the 
"success,"  or  near  it,  Governor  Gorges  came  to  Dennis  and 
asked  him  to  hand  Mrs.  Jeffries  down  to  supper,  a  request 
which  he  heard  with  great  joy. 

Polly  was  skipping  round  the  room,  I  guess,  gay  as  a  lark. 
Auchmuty  came  to  her  "in  pity  for  poor  Ingham,"  who 
was  so  bored  by  the  stupid  pundit — and  Auchmuty  could 
not  understand  why  I  stood  it  so  long.  But  when  Dennis 
took  Mrs.  Jeffries  down,  Polly  could  not  resist  standing  near 
them.  He  was  a  little  flustered,  till  the  sight  of  the  eatables 
and  drinkables  gave  him  the  same  Mercian  courage  which  it 
gave  Diggory.  A  little  excited  then,  he  attempted  one  or 
two  of  his  speeches  to  the  Judge's  lady.  But  little  he  knew 
how  hard  it  was  to  get  in  even  a  promptu  there  edgewise. 
"Very  well,  I  thank  you,"  said  he,  after  the  eating  elements 

*Which  means,  "In  the  thirteenth  century,"  my  dear  little 
bell-and-coral  reader.  You  have  rightly  guessed  that  the  ques 
tion  means,  ''"What  5s  the  history  of  the  Reformation  in  Hun 
gary  ?" 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME     85 

were  adjusted;  "and  you?"  And  then  did  not  he  have  to 
hear  about  the  mumps,  and  the  measles,  and  arnica,  and 
belladonna,  and  chamomile-flower,  and  dodecathem,  till  she 
changed  oysters  for  salad — and  then  about  the  old  practice 
and  the  new,  and  what  her  sister  said,  and  what  her  sister's 
friend  said,  and  what  the  physician  to  her  sister's  friend  said, 
and  then  what  was  said  by  the  brother  of  the  sister  of  the 
physician  of  the  friend  of  her  sister,  exactly  as  if  it  had  been 
in  Ollendorff?  There  was  a  moment's  pause,  as  she  declined 
champagne.  "I  am  very  glad  you  liked  it,"  said  Dennis 
again,  which  he  never  should  have  said,  but  to  one  who  com 
plimented  a  sermon.  "Oh!  you  are  so  sharp,  Mr.  Ingham! 
No!  I  never  drink  any  wine  at  all — except  sometimes  in 
summer  a  little  currant  spirits — from  our  own  currants,  you 
know.  My  own  mother — that  is,  I  call  her  my  own  mother, 
because,  you  know,  I  do  not  remember,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc.;  till 
they  came  to  the  candied  orange  at  the  end  of  the  feast — 
when  Dennis,  rather  confused,  thought  he  must  say  some 
thing,  and  tried  No.  4 — "I  agree,  in  general,  with  my  friend 
the  other  side  of  the  room" — which  he  never  should  have 
said  but  at  a  public  meeting.  But  Mrs.  Jeffries,  who  never 
listens  expecting  to  understand,  caught  him  up  instantly 
with,  "Well,  I'm  sure  my  husband  returns  the  compliment; 
he  always  agrees  with  you — though  we  do  worship  with  the 
Methodists — but  you  know,  Mr.  Ingham,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc., 
till  the  move  was  made  upstairs;  and  as  Dennis  led  her 
through  the  hall,  he  was  scarcely  understood  by  any  but 
Polly,  as  he  said,  "There  has  been  so  much  said,  and,  on  the 
whole,  so  well  said,  that  I  will  not  occupy  the  time." 

His  great  resource  the  rest  of  the  evening  was  standing 
in  the  library,  carrying  on  animated  conversations  with  one 
and  another  in  much  the  same  way.  Polly  had  Initiated  him 
in  the  mysteries  of  a  discovery  of  mine,  that  it  is  not  neces 
sary  to  finish  your  sentence  in  a  crowd,  but  by  a  sort  of 
mumble,  omitting  sibilants  and  dentals.  This,  indeed,  if 
your  words  fail  you,  answers  even  in  public  extempore  speech 
—but  better  where  other  talking  is  going  on.  Thus:  "We 
missed  you  at  the  Natural  History  Society,  Ingham."  Ing 
ham  replies:  "I  am  very  gligloglum,  that  is,  that  you  were 


86      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

m-m-m-m-m."  By  gradually  dropping  the  voice,  the  interloc 
utor  is  compelled  to  supply  the  answer.  "Mrs.  Ingham,  I 
hope  your  friend  Augusta  is  better."  Augusta  has  not  been 
ill.  Polly  cannot  think  of  explaining,  however,  and  answers: 
"Thank  you,  ma'am;  she  is  very  rearason  wewahwewob," 
in  lower  and  lower  tones.  And  Mrs.  Throckmorton,  who  for 
got  the  subject  of  which  she  spoke,  as  soon  as  she  asked  the 
question,  is  quite  satisfied.  Dennis  could  see  into  the  card- 
room,  and  came  to  Polly  to  ask  if  he  might  not  go  and  play 
all-fours.  But,  of  course,  she  sternly  refused.  At  midnight 
they  came  home  delightedly:  Polly,  as  I  said,  wild  to  tell 
me  the  story  of  victory;  only  both  the  pretty  Walton  girls 
said:  "Cousin  Frederic,  you  did  not  come  near  me  all  the 
evening." 

We  always  called  him  Dennis  at  home,  for  convenience, 
though  his  real  name  was  Frederic  Ingham,  as  I  have  ex 
plained.  When  the  election  day  came  round,  however,  I 
found  that  by  some  accident  there  was  only  one  Frederic 
Ingham's  name  on  the  voting-list;  and,  as  I  was  quite  busy 
that  day  in  writing  some  foreign  letters  to  Halle,  I  thought 
I  would  forego  my  privilege  of  suffrage,  and  stay  quietly  at 
home,  telling  Dennis  that  he  might  use  the  record  on  the  vot 
ing-list  and  vote.  I  gave  him  a  ticket,  which  I  told  him  he 
might  use,  if  he  liked  to.  That  was  that  very  sharp  election 
in  Maine  which  the  readers  of  The  Atlantic  so  well  remem 
ber,  and  it  had  been  intimated  in  public  that  the  ministers 
would  do  well  not  to  appear  at  the  polls.  Of  course,  after 
that,  we  had  to  appear  by  self  or  proxy.  Still,  Naguadavick 
was  not  then  a  city,  and  this  standing  in  a  double  queue  at 
townmeeting  several  hours  to  vote  was  a  bore  of  the  first 
water;  and  so,  when  I  found  that  there  was  but  one  Frederic 
Ingham  on  the  list,  and  that  one  of  us  must  give  up,  I  stayed 
at  home  and  finished  the  letters  (which,  indeed,  procured 
for  Fothergill  his  coveted  appointment  of  Professor  of  As 
tronomy  at  Leavenworth),  and  I  gave  Dennis,  as  we  called 
him,  the  chance.  Something  in  the  matter  gave  a  good  deal 
of  popularity  to  the  Frederic  Ingham  name;  and  at  the  ad 
journed  election,  next  week,  Frederic  Ingham  was  chosen 
to  the  legislature.  Whether  this  was  I  or  Dennis,  I  never 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME     87 

really  knew.  My  friends  seemed  to  think  it  was  I;  but  I 
felt,  that,  as  Dennis  -had  done  the  popular  thing,  he  was 
entitled  to  the  honor;  so  I  sent  him  to  Augusta  when  the 
time  came,  and  he  took  the  oaths.  And  a  very  valuable 
member  he  made.  They  appointed  him  on  the  Committee 
on  Parishes;  but  I  wrote  a  letter  for  him,  resigning,  on  the 
ground  that  he  took  an  interest  in  our  claim  to  the  stumpage 
in  the  minister's  sixteenths  of  Gore  A,  next  No.  7,  in  the 
loth  Range.  He  never  made  any  speeches,  and  always  voted 
with  the  minority,  which  was  what  he  was  sent  to  do.  He 
made  me  and  himself  a  great  many  good  friends,  some  of 
whom  I  did  not  afterwards  recognize  as  quickly  as  Dennis 
did  my  parishioners.  On  one  or  two  occasions,  when  there 
was  wood  to  saw  at  home,  I  kept  him  at  home;  but  I  took 
those  occasions  to  go  to  Augusta  myself.  Finding  myself 
often  in  his  vacant  seat  at  these  times,  I  watched  the  pro 
ceedings  with  a  good  deal  of  care;  and  once  was  so  much 
excited  that  I  delivered  my  somewhat  celebrated  speech  on 
the  Central  School  District  question,  a  speech  of  which  the 
State  of  Maine  printed  some  extra  copies.  I  believe  there  is 
no  formal  rule  permitting  strangers  to  speak;  but  no  one 
objected. 

Dennis  himself,  as  I  said,  never  spoke  at  all.  But  our 
experience  this  session  led  me  to  think,  that  if,  by  some 
such  "general  understanding"  as  the  reports  speak  of  in  legis 
lation  daily,  every  member  of  Congress  might  leave  a  double 
to  sit  through  those  deadly  sessions  and  answer  to  roll-calls 
and  do  the  legitimate  party-voting,  which  appears  stereotyped 
in  the  regular  list  of  Ashe,  Bocock,  Black,  etc.,  we  should 
gain  decidedly  in  working  power.  As  things  stand,  the  sad 
dest  state  prison  I  ever  visit  is  that  Representatives'  Cham 
ber  in  Washington.  If  a  man  leaves  for  an  hour,  twenty 
"correspondents"  may  be  howling,  "Where  was  Mr.  Prender- 
gast  when  the  Oregon  bill  passed?"  And  if  poor  Prender- 
gast  stays  there!  Certainly,  the  worst  use  you  can  mak< 
of  a  man  is  to  put  him  in  prison ! 

I  know,  indeed,  that  public  men  of  the  highest  rank  have 
resorted  to  this  expedient  long  ago.  Dumas's  novel  of  The 
Iron  Mask  turns  on  the  brutal  imprisonment  of  Louis  the 


88      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

Fourteenth's  double.  There  seems  little  doubt,  in  cur  own 
history,  that  it  was  the  real  General  Pierce  who  shed  tears 
when  the  delegate  from  Lawrence  explained  to  him  the  suf 
ferings  of  the  people  there — and  only  General  Pierce's  double 
who  had  given  the  orders  for  the  assault  on  that  town,  which 
was  invaded  the  next  day.  My  charming  friend,  George 
Withers,  has,  I  am  almost  sure,  a  double,  who  preaches  his 
afternoon  sermons  for  him.  This  is  the  reason  that  the 
theology  often  varies  so  from  that  of  the  forenoon.  But  that 
double  is  almost  as  charming  as  the  original.  Some  of  the 
most  well-defined  men,  who  stand  out  most  prominently  on 
the  background  of  history,  are  in  this  way  stereoscopic  men ; 
who  owe  their  distinct  relief  to  the  slight  differences  between 
the  doubles.  All  this  I  know.  My  present  suggestion  is  sim 
ply  the  great  extension  of  the  system,  so  that  all  public 
machine-work  may  be  done  by  it. 

But  I  see  I  loiter  on  my  story,  which  is  rushing  to  the 
plunge.  Let  me  stop  an  instant  more,  however,  to  recall, 
were  it  only  to  myself,  that  charming  year  while  all  was  yet 
•well.  After  the  double  had  become  a  matter  of  course,  for 
nearly  twelve  months  before  he  undid  me,  what  a  year  it 
was!  Full  of  active  life,  full  of  happy  love,  of  the  hardest 
work,  of  the  sweetest  sleep,  and  the  fulfilment  of  so  many 
of  the  fresh  aspirations  and  dreams  of  boyhood!  Dennis 
•went  to  every  school-committee  meeting,  and  sat  through  all 
those  late  wranglings  which  used  to  keep  me  up  till  midnight 
and  awake  till  morning.  He  attended  all  the  lectures  to 
which  foreign  exiles  sent  me  tickets  begging  me  to  come  for 
the  love  of  Heaven  and  of  Bohemia.  He  accepted  and  used 
all  the  tickets  for  charity  concerts  which  were  sent  to  me. 
He  appeared  everywhere  where  it  was  specially  desirable 
that  "our  denomination,"  or  "our  party,"  or  "our  class," 
or  "our  family,"  or  "our  street,"  or  "our  town,"  or  "our 
country,"  or  "our  state,"  should  be  fully  represented.  And 
I  fell  back  to  that  charming  life  which  in  boyhood  one  dreams 
of,  when  he  supposes  he  shall  do  his  own  duty  and  make  his 
own  sacrifices,  without  being  tied  up  with  those  of  other 
people.  My  rusty  Sanskrit,  Arabic,  Hebrew,  Greek,  Latin, 
French,  Italian,  Spanish,  German  and  English  began  to  take 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME     89 

polish.  Heavens!  how  little  I  had  done  with  them  while  I 
attended  to  my  public  duties!  My  calls  on  my  parishioners 
became  the  friendly,  frequent,  homelike  sociabilities  they 
were  meant  to  be,  instead  of  the  hard  work  of  a  man  goaded 
to  desperation  by  the  sight  of  his  lists  of  arrears.  And 
preaching!  what  a  luxury  preaching  was  when  I  had  on 
Sunday  the  whole  result  of  an  individual,  personal  week, 
from  which  to  speak  to  a  people  whom  all  that  week  I  had 
been  meeting  as  hand-to-hand  friend !  I  never  tired  on  Sun 
day,  and  was  in  condition  to  leave  the  sermon  at  home,  if  I 
chose,  and  preach  it  extempore,  as  all  men  should  do  al 
ways.  Indeed,  I  wonder,  when  I  think  that  a  sensible  peo 
ple  like  ours — really  more  attached  to  their  clergy  than  they 
were  in  the  lost  days,  when  the  Mathers  and  Nortons  were 
noblemen — should  choose  to  neutralize  so  much  of  their 
ministers'  lives,  and  destroy  so  much  of  their  early  training, 
by  this  undefined  passion  for  seeing  them  in  public.  It 
springs  from  our  balancing  of  sects.  If  a  spirited  Episco 
palian  takes  an  interest  in  the  almshouse,  and  is  put  on  the 
Poor  Board,  every  other  denomination  must  have  a  minis 
ter  there,  lest  the  poorhouse  be  changed  into  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral.  If  a  Sandemanian  is  chosen  president  of  the 
Young  Men's  Library,  there  must  be  a  Methodist  vice-presi 
dent  and  a  Baptist  secretary.  And  if  a  Universalist  Sunday- 
School  Convention  collects  five  hundred  delegates,  the  next 
Congregationalist  Sabbath-School  Conference  must  be  as 
large,  "lest  'they' — whoever  they  may  be — should  think  'we' 
— whoever  we  may  be — are  going  down." 

Freed  from  these  necessities,  that  happy  year,  I  began  to 
know  my  wife  by  sight.  We  saw  each  other  sometimes.  In 
those  long  mornings,  when  Dennis  was  in  the  study  explain 
ing  to  map-peddlers  that  I  had  eleven  maps  of  Jerusalem 
already,  and  to  school-book  agents  that  I  would  see  them 
hanged  before  I  would  be  bribed  to  introduce  their  text 
books  into  the  schools — she  and  I  were  at  work  together,  as 
in  those  old  dreamy  days — and  in  these  of  our  log-cabh> 
again.  But  all  this  could  not  last — and  at  length  poor  Den- 
nis,  my  double,  overtasked  in  turn,  undid  me. 

It  was  thus  it  happened.     There  is  an  excellent  fellow— 


90      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

ance  a  minister — I  will  call  him  Isaacs — who  deserves  well 
of  the  world  till  he  dies,  and  after — because  he  once,  in  a 
real  exigency,  did  the  right  thing,  in  the  right  way,  at  the 
right  time,  as  no  other  man  could  do  it.  In  the  world's  great 
football  match,  the  ball  by  chance  found  him  loitering  on  the 
outside  of  the  field;  he  closed  with  it,  "camped"  it,  charged 
it  home — yes,  right  through  the  other  side — not  disturbed, 
not  frightened  by  his  own  success — and  breathless  found 
himself  a  great  man — as  the  Great  Delta  rang  applause. 
But  he  did  not  find  himself  a  rich  man ;  and  the  football  has 
never  come  in  his  way  again.  From  that  moment  to  this 
moment  he  has  been  of  no  use,  that  one  can  see,  at  all.  Still, 
for  that  great  act  we  speak  of  Isaacs  gratefully  and  remem 
ber  him  kindly;  and  he  forges  on,  hoping  to  meet  the  foot 
ball  somewhere  again.  In  that  vague  hope,  he  had  ar 
ranged  a  "movement"  for  a  general  organization  of  the 
human  family  into  Debating  Clubs,  County  Societies,  State 
Unions,  etc.,  etc.,  with  a  view  of  inducing  all  children  to  take 
hold  of  the  handles  of  their  knives  and  forks,  instead  of  the 
metal.  Children  have  bad  habits  in  that  way.  The  move 
ment,  of  course,  was  absurd;  but  we  all  did  our  best  to  for 
ward,  not  it,  but  him.  It  came  time  for  the  annual  county- 
meeting  on  this  subject  to  be  held  at  Naguadavick.  Isaacs 
came  round,  good  fellow!  to  arrange  for  it — got  the  town- 
ball,  got  the  Governor  to  preside  (the  saint! — he  ought  to 
have  triplet  doubles  provided  him  by  law),  and  then  came 
to  get  me  to  speak.  "No,"  I  said,  "I  would  not  speak,  if 
ten  Governors  presided.  I  do  not  believe  in  the  enterprise. 
If  I  spoke,  it  should  be  to  say  children  should  take  hold  of 
the  prongs  of  the  forks  and  the  blades  of  the  knives.  I 
would  subscribe  ten  dollars,  but  I  would  not  speak  a  mill." 
So  poor  Isaacs  went  his  way,  sadly,  to  coax  Auchmuty  to 
speak,  and  Delafield.  I  went  out.  Not  long  after,  he  came 
back,  and  told  Polly  that  they  had  promised  to  speak — the 
Governor  would  speak — and  he  himself  would  close  with  the 
quarterly  report,  and  some  interesting  anecdotes  regarding 
Miss  Biffin's  way  of  handling  her  knife  and  Mr.  Nellis's  way 
of  footing  his  fork.  "Now  if  Mr.  Ingham  will  only  come  and 
sit  on  the  platform,  he  need  not  say  one  word;  but  it  will 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME     91 

show  well  in  the  paper— it  will  show  that  the  Sandemanians 
take  as  much  interest  in  the  movement  as  the  Armenians  or 
the  Mesopotamians,  and  will  be  a  great  favor  to  me."  Polly, 
good  soul!  was  tempted,  and  she  promised.  She  knew  Mrs. 
Isaacs  was  starving,  and  the  babies — she  knew  Dennis  was 
at  home — and  she  promised!  Night  came,  and  I  returned. 
I  heard  her  story.  I  was  sorry.  I  doubted.  But  Polly  had 
promised  to  beg  me,  and  I  dared  all !  I  told  Dennis  to  hold 
his  peace,  under  all  circumstances,  and  sent  him  down. 

It  was  not  half  an  hour  more  before  he  returned,  wild  with 
excitement — in  a  perfect  Irish  fury — which  it  was  long  be 
fore  I  understood.  But  I  knew  at  once  that  he  had  un 
done  me! 

What  happened  was  this:  The  audience  got  together,  at 
tracted  by  Governor  Gorges's  name.  There  were  a  thousand 
people.  Poor  Gorges  was  late  from  Augusta.  They  became 
impatient.  He  came  in  direct  from  the  train  at  last,  really 
ignorant  of  the  object  of  the  meeting.  He  opened  it  in  the 
fewest  possible  words,  and  said  other  gentlemen  were  present 
who  would  entertain  them  better  than  he.  The  audience 
were  disappointed,  but  waited.  The  Governor,  prompted 
by  Isaacs,  said,  "The  Honorable  Mr.  Delafield  will  address 
you."  Delafield  had  forgotten  the  knives  and  forks,  and  was 
playing  the  Ruy  Lopez  opening  at  the  chess  club.  "The 
Rev.  Mr.  Auchmuty  will  address  you."  Auchmuty  had 
promised  to  speak  late,  and  was  at  the  school  committee. 
"I  see  Dr.  Stearns  in  the  hall;  perhaps  he  will  say  a  word." 
Dr.  Stearns  said  he  had  come  to  listen  and  not  to  speak. 
The  Governor  and  Isaacs  whispered.  The  Governor  looked 
at  Dennis,  who  was  resplendent  on  the  platform;  but  Isaacs, 
to  give  him  his  due,  shook  his  head.  But  the  look  was 
enough.  A  miserable  lad,  ill-bred,  who  had  once  been  in 
Boston,  thought  it  would  sound  well  to  call  for  me,  and 
peeped  out,  "Ingham!"  A  few  more  wretches  cried,  "Ing- 
ham!  Ingham!"  Still  Isaacs  was  firm;  but  the  Governor, 
anxious,  indeed,  to  prevent  a  row,  knew  I  would  say  some 
thing,  and  said,  "Our  friend  Mr.  Ingham  is  always  prepared 
• — and  though  we  had  not  relied  upon  him,  he  will  say  a 
word,  perhaps."  Applause  followed,  which  turned  Dennis's 


92      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

head.  He  rose,  flattered,  and  tried  No.  3 :  "There  has  been 
so  much  said,  and,  on  the  whole,  so  well  said,  that  I  will 
not  longer  occupy  the  time!"  and  sat  down,  looking  for  his 
hat;  for  things  seemed  squally.  But  the  people  cried,  "Go 
on!  go  on!"  and  some  applauded.  Dennis,  still  confused, 
but  flattered  by  the  applause,  to  ivhich  neither  he  nor  I  are 
used,  rose  again,  and  this  time  tried  No.  2 :  "I  am  very  glad 
you  liked  it!"  in  a  sonorous,  clear  delivery.  My  best  friends 
stared.  All  the  people  who  did  not  know  me  personally 
yelled  with  delight  at  the  aspect  of  the  evening;  the  Gov 
ernor  was  beside  himself,  and  poor  Isaacs  thought  he  was 
•jiidone!  Alas,  it  was  I!  A  boy  in  the  gallery  cried  in  a 
loud  tone,  "It's  all  an  infernal  humbug,"  just  as  Dennis, 
waving  his  hand,  commanded  silence,  and  tried  No.  4:  "I 
agree,  in  general,  with  my  friend  the  other  side  of  the  room." 
The  poor  Governor  doubted  his  senses,  and  crossed  to  stop 
him — -not  in  time,  however.  The  same  gallery -boy  shouted, 
"How's  your  mother?" — and  Dennis,  now  completely  lost, 
tried,  as  his  last  shot,  No.  i,  vainly:  "Very  well,  thank  you; 
and  you?" 

I  think  I  must  have  been  undone  already.  But  Dennis, 
like  another  Lockhard,  chose  "to  make  sicker."  The  audi 
ence  rose  in  a  whirl  of  amazement,  rage,  and  sorrow.  Some 
other  impertinence,  aimed  at  Dennis,  broke  all  restraint, 
and,  in  pure  Irish,  he  delivered  himself  of  an  address  to  the 
gallery,  inviting  any  person  who  wished  to  fight  to  come 
down  and  do  so — stating,  that  they  were  all  dogs  and  cow 
ards — that  he  would  take  any  five  of  them  single-handed. 
"Shure,  I  have  said  all  his  Riverence  and  the  Misthress  bade 
me  say,"  cried  he,  in  defiance;  and,  seizing  the  Governor's 
cane  from  his  hand,  brandished  it,  quarter-staff  fashion,  above 
his  head.  He  was,  indeed,  got  from  the  hall  only  with  the 
greatest  difficulty  by  the  Governor,  the  City  Marshal,  who 
had  been  called  in,  and  the  Superintendent  of  my  Sunday 
School. 

The  universal  impression,  of  course,  was,  that  the  Rev. 
Frederic  Ingham  had  lost  all  command  of  himself  in  some 
of  those  haunts  of  intoxication  which  for  fifteen  years  I 
have  been  laboring  to  destroy.  Till  this  moment,  indeed, 


MY  DOUBLE;  AND  HOW  HE  UNDID  ME     93 

that  is  the  impression  in  Naguadavick.  This  number  of 
The  Atlantic  will  relieve  from  it  a  hundred  friends  of  mine 
who  have  been  sadly  wounded  by  that  notion  now  for  years 
— but  I  shall  not  be  likely  ever  to  show  my  head  there  again. 

No!     My  double  has  undone  me. 

We  left  town  at  seven  the  next  morning.  I  came  to  No. 
9,  in  the  Third  Range,  and  settled  on  the  Minister's  Lot. 
In  the  new  towns  in  Maine,  the  first  settled  minister  has  a 
gift  of  a  hundred  acres  of  land.  I  am  the  first  settled  min 
ister  in  No.  9.  My  wife  and  little  Paulina  are  my  parish. 
We  raise  corn  enough  to  live  on  in  summer.  We  kill  bear's 
meat  enough  to  carbonize  it  in  winter.  I  work  on  steadily 
on  my  Traces  of  Sandemanianism  in  the  Sixth  and  Seventh 
Centuries,  which  I  hope  to  persuade  Phillips,  Sampson  & 
Co.  to  publish  next  year.  We  are  very  happy,  but  the  world 
thinks  we  are  undone. 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  ASYLUM  FOR 

AGED  AND  DECAYED 

PUNSTERS 

BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  (1809-1894) 

HAVING  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  this  admirable  In 
stitution  in  company  with  a  friend  who  is  one  of  the 
Directors,  we  propose  giving  a  short  account  of  what 
Vve  saw  and  heard.  The  great  success  of  the  Asylum  for 
Idiots  and  Feeble-minded  Youth,  several  of  the  scholars  from 
which  have  reached  considerable  distinction,  one  of  them 
being  connected  with  a  leading  Daily  Paper  in  this  city,  and 
others  having  served  in  the  State  and  National  Legislatures, 
was  the  motive  which  led  to  the  foundation  of  this  excellent 
charity.  Our  late  distinguished  townsman,  Noah  Dow,  Es 
quire,  as  is  well  known,  bequeathed  a  large  portion  of  his 
fortune  to  this  establishment — "being  thereto  moved,"  as  his 
will  expressed  it,  "by  the  desire  of  N.  Dowing  some  public 
Institution  for  the  benefit  of  Mankind."  Being  consulted  as 
to  the  Rules  of  the  Institution  and  the  selection  of  a  Super 
intendent,  he  replied,  that  "all  Boards  must  construct  their 
own  Platforms  of  operation.  Let  them  select  anyhow  and  he 
should  be  pleased."  N.  E.  Howe,  Esq.,  was  chosen  in  com 
pliance  with  this  delicate  suggestion. 

The  Charter  provides  for  the  support  of  "One  hundred 
aged  and  decayed  Gentlemen-Punsters."  On  inquiry  if  there 
way  no  provision  for  females,  my  friend  called  my  attention 
to  this  remarkable  psychological  fact,  namely: 

THERE  is  NO  SUCH  THING  AS  A  FEMALE  PUNSTER. 

This  remark  struck  me  forcibly,  and  on  reflection  I  found 
that  /  never  knew  nor  heard  of  one,  though  I  have  once  or 

From  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  January,  1861.  Republished  in 
Soundings  from  the  Atlantic  (1864),  by  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 
whose  Authorized  publishers  are  the  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 

94 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  ASYLUM  95 

fewice  heard  a  woman  make  a  single  detached  pun,  as  I  have 
known  a  hen  to  crow. 

On  arriving  at  the  south  gate  of  the  Asylum  grounds,  I 
was  about  to  ring,  but  my  friend  held  my  arm  and  begged 
me  to  rap  with  my  stick,  which  I  did.  An  old  man  with  a 
very  comical  face  presently  opened  the  gate  and  put  out  his 
head. 

"So  you  prefer  Cane  to  A  bell,  do  you?"  he  said — and 
began  chuckling  and  coughing  at  a  great  rate. 

My  friend  winked  at  me. 

"You're  here  still,  Old  Joe,  I  see,"  he  said  to  the  old  man. 

"Yes,  yes — and  it's  very  odd,  considering  how  often  I've 
bolted,  nights." 

He  then  threw  open  the  double  gates  for  us  to  ride 
through. 

"Now,"  said  the  old  man,  as  fie  pulled  the  gates  after  us, 
"you've  had  a  long  journey." 

"Why,  how  is  that,  Old  Joe?"  said  my  friend. 

"Don't  you  see?"  he  answered;  "there's  the  East  hinges 
on  the  one  side  of  the  gate,  and  there's  the  West  hinges  on 
t'other  side — haw!  haw!  haw!" 

We  had  no  sooner  got  into  the  yard  than  a  feeble  little 
gentleman,  with  a  remarkably  bright  eye,  came  up  to  us, 
looking  very  serious,  as  if  something  had  happened. 

"The  town  has  entered  a  complaint  against  the  Asylum 
as  a  gambling  establishment,"  he  said  to  my  friend,  the  Di 
rector. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  my  friend. 

"Why,  they  complain  that  there's  a  lot  o'  rye  on  the  prem 
ises,"  he  answered,  pointing  to  a  field  of  that  grain — and 
hobbled  away,  his  shoulders  shaking  with  laughter,  as  he 
went. 

On  entering  the  main  building,  we  saw  the  Rules  and 
Regulations  for  the  Asylum  conspicuously  posted  up.  I 
made  a  few  extracts  which  may  be  interesting: 

SECT.  I.    OF  VERBAL  EXERCISES. 
5.  Each  Inmate  shall  be  permitted  to  make*  Puns  freely 


96      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

from  eight  in  the  morning  until  ten  at  night,  except  during 
Service  in  the  Ohapel  and  Grace  before  Meals. 

6.  At  ten  o'clock  the  gas  will  be  turned  off,  and  no  fur 
ther  Puns,  Conundrums,  or  other  play  on  words  will  be 
allowed  to  be  uttered,  or  to  be  uttered  aloud. 

9.  Inmates  who  have  lost  their  faculties  and  cannot  any 
longer  make  Puns  shall  be  permitted  to  repeat  such  as  may 
be  selected  for  them  by  the  Chaplain  out  of  the  work  of  Mr. 
Joseph  Miller. 

10.  Violent  and  unmanageable  Punsters,   who  interrupt 
others  when  engaged  in  conversation,  with  Puns  or  attempts 
at  the  same,  shall  be  deprived  of  their  Joseph  Millers,  and, 
if  necessary,  placed  in  solitary  confinement. 

SECT.  III.    OF  DEPORTMENT  AT  MEALS. 

4.  No  Inmate  shall  make  any  Pun,  or  attempt  at  the 
same,  until  the  Blessing  has  been  asked  and  the  company 
are  decently  seated. 

7.  Certain  Puns  having  been  placed  on  the  Index  Ex- 
purgatorius  of  the  Institution,  no  Inmate  shall  be  allowed 
to  utter  them,  on  pain  of  being  debarred  the  perusal  of  Punch 
and  Vanity  Fair,  and,  if  repeated,  deprived  of  his  Joseph 
Miller. 

Among  these  are  the  following: 

Allusions  to  Attic  salt,  when  asked  to  pass  the  salt-cellar. 

Remarks  on  the  Inmates  being  mustered,  etc.,  etc. 

Associating  baked  beans  with  the  ^ewe-factors  of  the  In 
stitution. 

Saying  that  beef-eating  is  befitting,  etc.,  etc. 

The  following  are  also  prohibited,  excepting  to  such  In' 
mates  as  may  have  lost  their  faculties  and  cannot  any  longer 
make  Puns  of  their  own: 

" your  own  hair  or  a  wig";  "it  will  be  long  enough," 

•etc.,  etc.;  "little  of  its  age,"  etc.,  etc.;  also,  playing  upon 
the  following  words:  hospital;  mayor;  pun;  pitied;  bread; 
sauce,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  See  INDEX  EXPURGATORIUS,  printed 
\or  use  of  Inmates. 

The  subjoined  Conundrum  is  not  allowed:    Why  is  Hasty 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  ASYLUM  97 

Pudding  like  the  Prince?  Because  it  comes  attended  by  itfc 
sweet;  nor  this  variation  to  it,  to  wit:  Because  the  'lasses 
runs  after  it. 

The  Superintendent,  who  went  round  with  us,  had  been 
a  noted  punster  in  his  time,  and  well  known  in  the  business 
world,  but  lost  his  customers  by  making  too  free  with  then 
names — as  in  the  famous  story  he  set  afloat  in  '29  of  four 
Jerries  attaching  to  the  names  of  a  noted  Judge,  an  eminent 
Lawyer,  the  Secretary  of  the  Board  of  Foreign  Missions,  and 
the  well-known  Landlord  at  Springfield.  One  of  the  four 
Jerries,  he  added,  was  of  gigantic  magnitude.  The  play  on 
words  was  brought  out  by  an  accidental  remark  of  Solomons, 
the  well-known  Banker.  "Capital  punishment!"  the  Jew 
was  overheard  saying,  with  reference  to  the  guilty  parties. 
He  was  understood,  as  saying,  A  capital  pun  is  meant,  which 
led  to  an  investigation  and  the  relief  of  the  greatly  excited 
public  mind. 

The  Superintendent  showed  some  of  his  old  tendencies,  as 
he  went  round  with  us. 

"Do  you  know" — he  broke  out  all  at  once — "why  fhey 
don't  take  steppes  in  Tartary  for  establishing  Insane  Kos* 
pitals?" 

We  both  confessed  ignorance. 

"Because  there  are  nomad  people  to  be  found  there,"  he 
said,  with  a  dignified  smile. 

He  proceeded  to  introduce  us  to  different  Inmates.  The 
first  was  a  middle-aged,  scholarly  man,  who  was  seated  at 
a  table  with  a  Webster's  Dictionary  and  a  sheet  of  paper 
before  him. 

"Well,  what  luck  to-day,  Mr.  Mowzer?"  said  the  Super 
intendent. 

"Three  or  four  only,"  said  Mr.  Mowzer.  "Will  you  hear 
'em  now — now  I'm  here?" 

We  all  nodded. 

"Don't  you  see  Webster  ers  in  the  words  center  and 
theater? 

"If  he  spells  leather  lether,  and  feather  fether,  isn't  there 
danger  that  he'll  give  us  a  bad  spell  of  weather? 


98      AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"Besides,  Webster  is  a  resurrectionist;  he  does  not  allow 
'/  to  rest  quietly  in  the  mould. 

"And  again,  because  Mr.  Worcester  inserts  an  illustration 
in  his  text,  is  that  any  reason  why  Mr.  Webster's  publishers 
should  hitch  one  on  in  their  appendix?  It's  what  I  call  a 
Connect-a-cut  trick. 

"Why  is  his  way  of  spelling  like  the  floor  of  an  oven? 
Because  it  is  under  bread." 

"Mowzer!"  said  the  Superintendent,  "that  word  is  on 
the- Index!" 

"I  forgot,"  said  Mr.  Mowzer;  "please  don't  deprive  me 
of  Vanity  Fair  this  one  time,  sir." 

"These  are  all,  this  morning.  Good  day,  gentlemen." 
Then  to  the  Superintendent:  "Add  you,  sir!" 

The  next  Inmate  was  a  semi-idiotic-looking  old  man.  He 
had  a  heap  of  block-letters  before  him,  and,  as  we  came  up, 
he  pointed,  without  saying  a  word,  to  the  arrangements  he 
had  made  with  them  on  the  table.  They  were  evidently 
anagrams,  and  had  the  merft  of  transposing  the  letters  of 
the  words  employed  without  addition  or  subtraction.  Here 
are  a  few  of  them: 

TIMES.  SMITE! 

POST.  STOP  ! 

TRIBUNE.  TRUE  NIB. 

WORLD.  DR.  OWL. 

ADVERTISER.  \  TRES  VEM  J?AT"  , 
(   Is  TRUE.    READ! 

ALLOPATHY.    ALL  o'  TH'  PAY. 

HOMOEOPATHY.    O,  THE !  O!  O,  MY!    PAH! 

The  mention  of  several  New  York  papers  led  to  two  or 
three  questions.  Thus:  Whether  the  Editor  of  The  Tribune 
was  H.  G.  really?  If  the  complexion  of  his  politics  were 
not  accounted  for  by  his  being  an  eager  person  himself? 
Whether  Wendell  Fillips  were  not  a  reduced  copy  of  John 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  ASYLUM  99 

Knocks?  Whether  a  New  York  Feuittetoniste  is  not  the 
same  thing  as  a  Fellow  down  East? 

At  this  time  a  plausible-looking,  bald-headed  man  joined 
us,  evidently  waiting  to  take  a  part  in  the  conversation. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Higgles,"  said  the  Superintendent. 
"Anything  fresh  this  morning?  Any  Conundrum?" 

"I  haven't  looked  at  the  cattle,"  he  answered,  dryly. 

"Cattle?     Why  cattle?" 

"Why,  to  see  if  there's  any  corn  under  'em!"  he  said;  and 
immediately  asked,  "Why  is  Douglas  like  the  earth?" 

We  tried,  but  couldn't  guess. 

"Because  he  was  flattened  out  at  the  polls!"  said  Mr. 
Higgles. 

"A  famous  politician,  formerly,"  said  the  Superintendent. 
"His  grandfather  was  a  seize-Hessian-ist  in  the  Revolution 
ary  War.  By  the  way,  I  hear  the  freeze-oil  doctrines  don't 
go  down  at  New  Bedford." 

The  next  Inmate  looked  as  if  he  might  have  been  a  sailor 
formerly. 

c'Ask  him  what  his  calling  was,"  said  the  Superintendent. 

"Followed  the  sea,"  he  replied  to  the  question  put  by  one 
of  us.  "Went  as  mate  in  a  fishing-schooner." 

"Why  did  you  give  it  up?" 

"Because  I  didn't  like  working  for  two  mast-ers"  he  re 
plied. 

Presently  we  came  upon  a  group  of  elderly  persons,  gath 
ered  about  a  venerable  gentleman  with  flowing  locks,  who 
was  propounding  questions  to  a  row  of  Inmates. 

"Can  any  Inmate  give  me  a  motto  for  M.  Berger?"  he 
said. 

Nobody  responded  for  two  or  three  minutes.  At  last 
one  old  man,  whom  I  at  once  recognized  as  a  Graduate  of 
our  University  (Anno  1800)  held  up  his  hand. 

"Rem  a  cue  tetigit." 

"Go  to  the  head  of  the  class,  Josselyn,"  said  the  venerable 
patriarch. 

The  successful  Inmate  did  as  he  was  told,  but  in  a  very 
rough  way,  pushing  against  two  or  three  of  the  Class. 

"How  is  this?"  said  the  Patriarch. 


ioo    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"You  told  me  to  go  up  jostlin',"  he  replied. 

The  old  gentlemen  who  had  been  shoved  about  enjoyed 
Ihe  pun  too  much  to  be  angry. 

Presently  the  Patriarch  asked  again: 

"Why  was  M.  Berger  authorized  to  go  to  the  dances  given 
to  the  Prince?" 

The  Class  had  to  give  up  this,  and  he  answered  it  him 
self: 

"Because  every  one  of  his  carroms  was  a  tick-it  to  the 
ball" 

"Who  collects  the  money  to  defray  the  expenses  of  the 
last  campaign  in  Italy?"  asked  the  Patriarch. 

Here  again  the  Class  failed. 

"The  war-cloud's  rolling  Dun,"  he  answered. 

"And  what  is  mulled  wine  made  with?" 

Three  or  four  voices  exclaimed  at  once: 

"Sizzle-y  Madeira!" 

Here  a  servant  entered,  and  said,  "Luncheon-time."  The 
old  gentlemen,  who  have  excellent  appetites,  dispersed  at 
once,  one  of  them  politely  asking  us  if  we  would  not  stop  and 
have  a  bit  of  bread  and  a  little  mite  of  cheese. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  have  forgotten  to  show  you,"  said 
the  Superintendent,  "the  cell  for  the  confinement  of  violent 
and  unmanageable  Punsters." 

We  were  very  curious  to  see  it,  particularly  with  refer 
ence  to  the  alleged  absence  of  every  object  upon  which  a 
play  of  words  could  possibly  be  made. 

The  Superintendent  led  us  up  some  dark  stairs  to  a  cor 
ridor,  then  along  a  narrow  passage,  then  down  a  broad  flight 
of  steps  into  another  passageway,  and  opened  a  large  door 
which  looked  out  on  the  main  entrance. 

"We  have  not  seen  the  cell  for  the  confinement  of  'violent 
and  unmanageable'  Punsters,"  we  both  exclaimed. 

"This  is  the  sett!"  he  exclaimed,  pointing  to  the  outside 
prospect. 

My  friend,  the  Director,  looked  me  in  the  face  so  good- 
naturedly  that  I  had  to  laugh. 

"We  like  to  humor  the  Inmates,"  he  said.  "It  has  a  bad 
effect,  we  find,  on  their  health  and  spirits  to  disappoint  them 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  ASYLUM  101 

of  their  little  pleasantries.  Some  of  the  jests  to  which  we 
have  listened  are  not  new  to  me,  though  I  dare  say  you  may 
not  have  heard  them  often  before.  The  same  thing  happens 
in  general  society,  with  this  additional  disadvantage,  that 
there  is  no  punishment  provided  for  'violent  and  unmanage 
able'  Punsters,  as  in  our  Institution." 

We  made  our  bow  to  the  Superintendent  and  walked  to 
the  place  where  our  carriage  was  waiting  ror  us.  On  our 
way,  an  exceedingly  decrepit  old  man  moved  slowly  toward 
us,  with  a  perfectly  blank  look  on  his  face,  but  still  appear 
ing  as  if  he  wished  to  speak. 

"Look!"  said  the  Director — "that  is  our  Centenarian." 

The  ancient  man  crawled  toward  us,  cocked  one  eye,  with 
which  he  seemed  to  see  a  little,  up  at  us,  and  said: 

"Sarvant,  young  Gentlemen.  Why  is  a — a — a — like  a — 
a — a — ?  Give  it  up?  Because  it's  a — a — a — a — ." 

He  smiled  a  pleasant  smile,  as  if  it  were  all  plain  enough. 

"One  hundred  and  seven  last  Christmas,'5  said  the  Direc 
tor.  Of  late  eyars  he  puts  his  whole  Conundrums  in  olank 
—but  they  please  him  just  as  well." 

We  took  our  departure,  much  gratified  and  instructed  jy 
our  visit,  hoping  to  have  some  future  opportunity  of  inspect 
ing  the  Records  of  this  excellent  Charity  and  making  extracts 
for  the  benefit  of  our  Readers. 


THE  CELEBRATED  JUMPING 
FROG  OF  CALAVERAS 

COUNTY  v 

BY  MARK  TWAIN  (1835-1910) 

[N  COMPLIANCE  with  the  request  of  a  friend  of  mine, 
who  wrote  me  from  the  East,  I  called  on  good-natured, 
garrulous  old  Simon  Wheeler,  and  inquired  after  my 
friend's  friend,  Leonidas  W.  Smiley,  as  requested  to  do,  and 
I  hereunto  append  the  result.  I  have  a  lurking  suspicion  that 
Leonidas  W.  Smiley  is  a  myth;  and  that  my  friend  never 
knew  such  a  personage;  and  that  he  only  conjectured  that 
if  I  asked  old  Wheeler  about  him,  it  would  remind  him  of 
his  infamous  Jim  Smiley,  and  he  would  go  to  work  and  bore 
me  to  death  with  some  exasperating  reminiscence  of  him  as 
long  and  as  tedious  as  it  should  be  useless  to  me.  If  that 
was  the  design,  it  succeeded. 

I  found  Simon  Wheeler  dozing  comfortably  by  the  bar 
room  stove  of  the  dilapidated  tavern  in  the  decayed  mining 
camp  of  Angel's,  and  I  noticed  that  he  was  fat  and  bald- 
headed,  and  had  an  expression  of  winning  gentleness  and  sim 
plicity  upon  his  tranquil  countenance.  He  roused  up,  and 
gave  me  good-day.  I  told  him  a  friend  had  commissioned 
me  to  make  some  inquiries  about  a  cherished  companion  of 
his  boyhood  named  Leonidas  W.  Smiley — Rev.  Leonidas  W. 
Smiley,  a  young  minister  of  the  Gospel,  who  he  had  heard 
was  at  one  time  a  resident  of  Angel's  Camp.  I  added  that 
if  Mr.  Wheeler  could  tell  me  anything  about  this  Rev.  Leoni 
das  W.  Smiley,  I  would  feel  under  many  obligations  to  him. 

From  The  Saturday  Press,  Nov.  18,  1865.  Republished  in  The 
Celebrated  Jumping  Frog  of  Calaveras  County,  and  Other 
Sketches  (1867),  by  Mark  Twain,  all  of  whose  works  are  pub 
lished  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

102 


THE  CELEBRATED  JUMPING  FROG         103 

Simon  Wheeler  backed  me  into  a  corner  and  blockaded 
me  there  with  his  chair,  and  then  sat  down  and  reeled  off 
tiie  monotonous  narrative  which  follows  this  paragraph.  He 
never  smiled,  he  never  frowned,  he  never  changed  his  voice 
from  the  gentle-flowing  key  to  which  he  tuned  his  initial 
sentence,  he  never  betrayed  the  slightest  suspicion  of  en 
thusiasm;  but  all  through  the  interminable  narrative  there 
ran  a  vein  of  impressive  earnestness  and  sincerity,  which 
showed  me  plainly  that,  so  far  from  his  imagining  that  there 
was  anything  ridiculous  or  funny  about  his  story,  he  re 
garded  it  as  a  really  important  matter,  and  admired  its  two 
heroes  as  men  of  transcendent  genius  in  finesse.  I  let  him 
go  on  in  his  own  way,  and  never  interrupted  him  once. 

"Rev.  Leonidas  W.  H'm,  Reverend  Le — well,  there  was 
a  feller  here  once  by  the  name  of  Jim  Smiley,  in  the  winter 
of  '49 — or  may  be  it  was  the  spring  of  '50 — I  don't  recollect 
exactly,  somehow,  though  what  makes  me  think  it  was  one 
or  the  other  is  because  I  remember  the  big  flume  warn't 
finished  when  he  first  came  to  the  camp;  but  any  way,  he 
was  the  curiousest  man  about  always  betting  on  anything 
that  turned  up  you  ever  see,  if  he  could  get  anybody  to  bet 
on  the  other  side ;  and  if  he  couldn't  he'd  change  sides.  Any 
way  that  suited  the  other  man  would  suit  him — any  way 
just  so's  he  got  a  bet,  he  was  satisfied.  But  still  he  was 
lucky,  uncommon  lucky;  he  most  always  come  out  winner. 
He  was  always  ready  and  laying  for  a  chance;  there  couldn't 
be  no  solit'ry  thing  mentioned  but  that  feller'd  offer  to  bet 
on  it,  and  take  ary  side  you  please,  as  I  was  just  telling 
you.  If  there  was  a  horse-race,  you'd  find  him  flush  or  you'd 
find  him  busted  at  the  end  of  it;  if  there  was  a  dog-fight, 
he'd  bet  on  it;  if  there  was  a  cat-fight,  he'd  bet  on  it;  if 
there  was  a  chicken-fight,  he'd  bet  on  it;  why,  if  there  was 
two  birds  setting  on  a  fence,  he  would  bet  you  which  one 
would  fly  first;  or  if  there  was  a  camp-meeting,  he  would  be 
there  reg'lar  to  bet  on  Parson  Walker,  which  he  judged  to 
be  the  best  exhorter  about  here,  and  he  was,  too,  and  a  good 
man.  If  he  even  see  a  straddle-bug  start  to  go  anywheres, 
he  would  bet  you  how  long  it  would  take  him  to  get  to — to 
wherever  he  was  going  to,  and  if  you  took  him  up,  he  would 


104    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

foller  that  straddle-bug  to  Mexico  but  what  he  would  find 
out  where  he  was  bound  for  and  how  long  he  was  on  the 
road.  Lots  of  the  boys  here  has  seen  that  Smiley  and  can 
tell  you  about  him.  Why,  it  never  made  no  difference  to 
him — he'd  bet  on  any  thing — the  dangest  feller.  Parson 
Walker's  wife  laid  very  sick  once,  for  a  good  while,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  they  warn't  going  to  save  her;  but  one  morning 
he  come  in,  and  Smiley  up  and  asked  him  how  she  was,  and 
he  said  she  was  considerable  better — thank  the  Lord  for  his 
inf'nit'  mercy — and  coming  on  so  smart  that  with  the  bless 
ing  of  Prov'dence  she'd  get  well  yet;  and  Smiley,  before  he 
thought,  says,  "Well,  I'll  risk  two-and-a-half  she  don't  any 
way." 

Thish-yer  Smiley  had  a  mare — the  boys  called  her  the  fif 
teen-minute  nag,  but  that  was  only  in  fun,  you  know,  be 
cause,  of  course,  she  was  faster  than  that — and  he  used  to 
win  money  on  that  horse,  for  all  she  was  so  slow  and  always 
had  the  asthma,  or  the  distemper,  or  the  consumption,  or 
something  of  that  kind.  They  used  to  give  her  two  or 
three  hundred  yards  start,  and  then  pass  her  under  way; 
but  always  at  the  fag-end  of  the  race  she'd  get  excited  and 
desperate-like,  and  come  cavorting  and  straddling  up,  and 
scattering  her  legs  around  limber,  sometimes  in  the  air,  and 
sometimes  out  to  one  side  amongst  the  fences,  and  kicking 
up  m-o-r-e  dust  and  raising  m-o-r-e  racket  with  her  cough 
ing  and  sneezing  and  blowing  her  nose — and  always  fetch  up 
at  the  stand  just  about  a  neck  ahead,  as  near  as  you  could 
cipher  it  down. 

And  he  had  a  little  small  bull-pup,  that  to  look  at  him 
you'd  think  he  warn't  worth  a  cent  but  to  set  around  and 
look  ornery  and  lay  for  a  chance  to  steal  something.  But  as 
soon  as  money  was  up  on  him  he  was  a  different  dog;  his 
tmder-jaw'd  begin  to  stick  out  like  the  fo'-castle  of  a  steam 
boat,  and  .his  teeth  would  uncover  and  shine  like  the  fur 
naces.  And  a  dog  might  tackle  him  and  bully-rag  him,  and 
bite  him,  and  throw  him  over  his  shoulder  two  or  three 
times,  and  Andrew  Jackson — which  was  the  name  of  the 
pup — Andrew  Jackson  would  never  let  on  but  what  he  was 
satisfied,  and  hadn't  expected  nothing  else — and  the  bets 


THE  CELEBRATED  JUMPING  FROG          105 

being  doubled  and  doubled  on  the  other  side  all  the  time, 
till  the  money  was  all  up;  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  he  would 
grab  that  other  dog  jest  by  the  j'int  of  his  hind  leg  and 
freeze  to  it — not  chaw,  you  understand,  but  only  just  grip 
and  hang  on  till  they  throwed  up  the  sponge,  if  it  was  a 
year.  Smiley  always  come  out  winner  on  'that  pup,  till  he 
harnessed  a  dog  once  that  didn't  have  no  hind  legs,  because 
they'd  been  sawed  off  in  a  circular  saw,  and  when  the  thing 
had  gone  along  far  enough,  and  the  money  was  all  up,  and 
he  come  to  make  a  snatch  for  his  pet  holt,  he  see  in  a  minute 
how  he'd  been  imposed  on,  and  how  the  other  dog  had  him 
in  the  door,  so  to  speak,  and  he  'peared  surprised,  and  then 
he  looked  sorter  discouraged-like,  and  didn't  try  no  more  to 
win  the  fight,  and  so  he  got  shucked  out  bad.  He  gave 
Smiley  a  look,  as  much  as  to  say  his  heart  was  broke,  and 
it  was  his  fault,  for  putting  up  a  dog  that  hadn't  no  hind 
legs  for  him  to  take  holt  of,  which  was  his  main  dependence 
in  a  fight,  and  then  he  limped  off  a  piece  and  laid  down  and 
died.  It  was  a  good  pup,  was  that  Andrew  Jackson,  and 
would  have  made  a  name  for  hisself  if  he'd  lived,  for  the 
stuff  was  in  him  and  he  had  genius — I  know  it,  because  he 
hadn't  no  opportunities  to  speak  of,  and  it  don't  stand  to 
reason  that  a  dog  could  make  such  a  fight  as  he  could  under 
them  circumstances  if  he  hadn't  no  talent.  It  always  makes 
me  feel  sorry  when  I  think  of  that  last  fight  of  his'n,  and 
the  way  it  turned  out. 

Well,  thish-yer  Smiley  had  rat-tarriers,  and  chicken  cocks, 
and  tom-cats  and  all  of  them  kind  of  things,  till  you  couldn't 
rest,  and  you  couldn't  fetch  nothing  for  him  to  bet  on  but 
he'd  match  you.  He  ketched  a  frog  one  day,  and  took  him 
home,  and  said  he  cal'lated  to  educate  him;  and  so  he  never 
done  nothing  for  three  months  but  set  in  his  back  yard  and 
learn  that  frog  to  jump.  And  you  bet  you  he  did  learn 
him,  too.  He'd  give  him  a  little  punch  behind,  and  the  next 
minute  you'd  see  that  frog  whirling  in  the  air  like  a  dough 
nut — see  him  turn  one  summerset,  or  may  be  a  couple,  if  he 
got  a  good  start,  and  come  down  flat-footed  and  all  right,  like 
a  cat.  He  got  him  up  so  in  the  matter  of  ketching  flies,  and 
kep'  him  in  practice  so  constant,  that  he'd  nail  a  fly  every 


io6    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

time  as  fur  as  he  could  see  him.  Smiley  said  all  a  frog 
wanted  was  education,  and  he  could  do  'most  anything — 
and  I  believe  him.  Why,  I've  seen  him  set  Dan'l  Webster 
down  here  on  this  floor — Dan'l  Webster  was  the  name  of 
the  frog — and  sing  out,  "Flies,  Dan'l,  flies!"  and  quicker'n 
you  could  wink  he'd  spring  straight  up  and  snake  a  fly  off 'n 
the  counter  there,  and  flop  down  on  the  floor  ag'in  as  solid  as 
a  gob  of  mud,  and  fall  to  scratching  the  side  of  his  head 
with  his  hind  foot  as  indifferent  as  if  he  hadn't  no  idea  he'd 
been  doin'  any  more'n  any  frog  might  do.  You  never  see 
a  frog  so  modest  and  straightfor'ard  as  he  was,  for  all  he 
was  so  gifted.  And  when  it  come  to  fair  and  square  jump 
ing  on  a  dead  level,  he  could  get  over  more  ground  at  one 
straddle  than  any  animal  of  his  breed  you  ever  see.  Jump 
ing  on  a  dead  level  was  his  strong  suit,  you  understand;  and 
when  it  come  to  that,  Smiley  would  ante  up  money  on  him 
as  long  as  he  had  a  red.  Smiley  was  monstrous  proud  of 
his  frog,  and  well  he  might  be,  for  fellers  that  had  traveled 
and  been  everywheres,  all  said  he  laid  over  any  frog  that 
ever  they  see. 

Well,  Smiley  kep'  the  beast  in  a  little  lattice  box,  and 
he  used  to  fetch  him  downtown  sometimes  and  lay  for  a 
bet.  One  day  a  feller — a  stranger  in  the  camp,  he  was — 
come  acrost  him  with  his  box,  and  says: 

"What  might  be  that  you've  got  in  the  box?" 

And  Smiley  says,  sorter  indifferent-like,  "It  might  be  a 
parrot,  or  it  might  be  a  canary,  maybe,  but  it  ain't — it's  only 
just  a  frog." 

And  the  feller  took  it,  and  looked  at  it  careful,  and  turned 
it  round  this  way  and  that,  and  says,  "H'm — so  'tis.  Well, 
what's  he  good  for?" 

"Well,"  Smiley  says,  easy  and  careless,  "he's  good  enough 
for  one  thing,  I  should  judge — he  can  outjump  any  frog  in 
Calaveras  county." 

The  feller  took  the  box  again,  and  took  another  long, 
particular  look,  and  give  it  back  to  Smiley,  and  says,  very 
deliberate,  "Well,"  he  says,  "I  don't  see  no  p'ints  about  that 
frog  that's  any  better'n  any  other  frog." 

"Maybe  you  don't,"  Smiley  says.  "Maybe  you  understand 


THE  CELEBRATED  JUMPING  .FROG         107 

frogs  and  maybe  you  don't  understand  'em;  maybe  you've 
had  experience,  and  maybe  you  ain't  only  a  amature,  as 
it  were.  Anyways,  I've  got  my  opinion  and  I'll  risk  forty 
dollars  that  he  can  outjump  any  frog  in  Calaveras  County." 

And  the  feller  studied  a  minute,  and  then  says,  kinder 
sad  like,  "Well,  I'm  only  a  stranger  here,  and  I  ain't  got  no 
frog;  but  if  I  had  a  frog,  I'd  bet  you." 

And  then  Smiley  says,  "That's  all  right — that's  all  right — • 
if  you'll  hold  my  box  a  minute,  I'll  go  and  get  you  a  frog.'* 
And  so  the  feller  took  the  box,  and  put  up  his  forty  dollars 
along  with  Smiley's,  and  set  down  to  wait. 

So  he  set  there  a  good  while  thinking  and  thinking  to  his- 
self,  and  then  he  got  the  frog  out  and  prized  his  mouth  open 
and  took  a  teaspoon  and  filled  him  full  of  quail  shot — filled 
him  pretty  near  up  to  his  chin — and  set  him  on  the  floor. 
Smiley  he  went  to  the  swamp  and  slopped  around  in  the  mud 
for  a  long  time,  and  finally  he  ketched  a  frog,  and  fetched 
him  in,  and  give  him  to  this  feller,  and  says: 

"Now,  if  you're  ready,  set  him  alongside  of  Dan'l,  with 
his  forepaws  just  even  with  Dan'Ps,  and  I'll  give  the  word." 
Then  he  says,  "One — two — three — git!"  and  him  and  the 
feller  touched  up  the  frogs  from  behind,  and  the  new  frog 
hopped  off  lively,  but  Dan'l  give  a  heave,  and  hysted  up 
his  shoulders — so — like  a  Frenchman,  but  it  warn't  no  use — 
he  couldn't  budge;  he  was  planted  as  solid  as  a  church,  and 
he  couldn't  no  more  stir  than  if  he  was  anchored  out.  Smiley 
was  a  good  deal  surprised,  and  he  was  disgusted  too,  but 
he  didn't  have  no  idea  what  the  matter  was,  of  course. 

The  feller  took  the  money  and  started  away;  and  when 
he  was  going  out  at  the  door,  he  sorter  jerked  his  thumb 
over  his  shoulder — so — at  Dan'l,  and  says  again,  very  delib 
erate,  "Well,"  he  says,  "/  don't  see  no  p'ints  about  that 
frog  that's  any  better'n  any  other  frog." 

Smiley  he  stood  scratching  his  head  and  looking  down  at 
Dan'l  a  long  time,  and  at  last  says,  "I  do  wonder  what  in 
the  nation  that  frog  throwed  off  for — I  wonder  if  there  ain't 
something  the  matter  with  him — he  'pears  to  look  mighty 
baggy,  somehow."  And  he  ketched  Dan'l  up  by  the  nap 
of  the  neck3  and  hefted  him,  and  says,  "Why  blame  my  cats 


io8    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

if  he  don't  weigh  five  pounds!"  and  turned  him  upside  down 
and  he  belched  out  a  double  handful  of  shot.  And  then  he 
see  how  it  was,  and  he  was  the  maddest  man — he  set  the 
frog  down  and  took  out  after  that  feller,  but  he  never 
ketched  him.  And " 

(Here  Simon  Wheeler  heard  his  name  called  from  the 
front  yard,  and  got  up  to  see  what  was  wanted.)  And 
turning  to  me  as  he  moved  away,  he  said:  "Just  set  where 
you  are,  stranger,  and  rest  easy — I  ain't  going  to  be  gone  a 
second." 

But,  by  your  leave,  i  did  not  think  that  a  continuation 
of  the  history  of  the  enterprising  vagabond  Jim  Smiley  would 
be  likely  to  afford  me  much  information  concerning  the  Rev. 
Leonidas  W.  Smiley,  and  so  I  started  away. 

At  the  door  I  met  the  sociable  Wheeler  returning,  and  he 
buttonholed  me  and  recommenced: 

"Well,  thish-yer  Smiley  had  a  yaller,  one-eyed  cow  that 
didn't  have  no  tail,  only  jest  a  short  stump  like  a  bannanner, 
and » 

However,  lacking  both  time  and  inclination,  I  did  not 
wait  to  hear  about  the  afflicted  cow,  but  took  my  leave. 


ELDER  BROWN'S  BACKSLIDE 

BY  HARRY  STILLWELL  EDWARDS  (1855-        ) 

ELDER  BROWN  told  his  wife  good-by  at  the  farmhouse 
door  as  mechanically  as  though  his  proposed  trip  to 
Macon,  ten  miles  away,  was  an  everyday  affair,  while, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  many  years  had  elapsed  since  unaccom 
panied  he  set  foot  in  the  city.  He  did  not  kiss  her.  Many 
very  good  men  never  kiss  their  wives.  But  small  blame  at 
taches  to  the  elder  for  his  omission  on  this  occasion,  since  his 
wife  had  long  ago  discouraged  all  amorous  demonstrations  on 
the  part  of  her  liege  lord,  and  at  this  particular  moment  was 
filling  the  parting  moments  with  a  rattling  list  of  directions 
concerning  thread,  buttons,  hooks,  needles,  and  all  the  many 
etceteras  of  an  industrious  housewife's  basket.  The  elder 
was  laboriously  assorting  these  postscript  commissions  in  his 
memory,  well  knowing  that  to  return  with  any  one  of  them 
neglected  would  cause  trouble  in  the  family  circle. 

Elder  Brown  mounted  his  patient  steed  that  stood  sleepily 
motionless  in  the  warm  sunlight,  with  his  great  pointed  ears 
displayed  to  the  right  and  left,  as  though  their  owner  had 
grown  tired  of  the  life  burden  their  weight  inflicted  upon 
him,  and  was,  old  soldier  fashion,  ready  to  forego  the  once 
rigid  alertness  of  early  training  for  the  pleasures  of  fre 
quent  rest  on  arms. 

"And,  elder,  don't  you  forgit  them  caliker  scraps,  or 
you'll  be  wantin'  kiver  soon  an'  no  kiver  will  be  a-comin'." 

Elder  Brown  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  merely  let  the 
whip  hand,  which  had  been  checked  in  its  backward  motion, 

From  Harper's  Magazine,  August,  1885;  copyright,  1885,  by 
Harper  &  Bros. ;  republished  in  the  volume,  Two  Runaways,  and 
Other  Stories  (1889),  by  Harry  Stillwell  Edwards  (The  Cen 
tury  Co.). 

109 


i  io    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

fall  as  he  answered  mechanically.  The  beast  he  be 
strode  responded  with  a  rapid  -whisking  of  its  tail  and  a 
great  show  of  effort,  as  it  ambled  off  down  the  sandy  road, 
the  rider's  long  legs  seeming  now  and  then  to  touch  the 
ground. 

But  as  the  zigzag  panels  of  the  rail  fence  crept  behind 
him,  and  he  felt  the  freedom  of  the  morning  beginning  to  act 
upon  his  well-trained  blood,  the  mechanical  manner  of  the 
old  man's  mind  gave  place  to  a  mild  exuberance.  A  weight 
seemed  to  be  lifting  from  it  ounce  by  ounce  as  the  fence 
panels,  the  weedy  corners,  the  persimmon  sprouts  and  sassa 
fras  bushes  crept  away  behind  him,  so  that  by  the  time  a 
mile  lay  between  him  and  the  life  partner  of  his  joys  and 
sorrows  he  was  in  a  reasonably  contented  frame  of  mind, 
and  still  improving. 

It  was  a  queer  figure  that  crept  along  the  road  that  cheery 
May  morning.  It  was  tall  and  gaunt,  and  had  been  for 
thirty  years  or  more.  The  long  head,  bald  on  top,  covered 
behind  with  iron-gray  hair,  and  in  front  with  a  short  tangled 
growth  that  curled  and  kinked  in  every  direction,  was  sur 
mounted  by  an  old-fashioned  stove-pipe  hat,  worn  and 
stained,  but  eminently  i/npressive.  An  old-fashioned  Henry 
Clay  cloth  coat,  stained  and  threadbare,  divided  itself  im 
partially  over  the  donkey's  back  and  dangled  on  his  sides. 
This  was  all  that  remained  of  the  elder's  wedding  suit  of 
forty  years  ago.  Only  constant  care,  and  use  of  late  years 
limited  to  extra  occasions,  had  preserved  it  so  long.  The 
trousers  had  soon  parted  company  with  their  friends.  The 
substitutes  were  red  jeans,  which,  while  they  did  not  well 
match  his  court  costume,  were  better  able  to  withstand  the 
old  man's  abuse,  for  if,  in  addition  to  his  frequent  religious 
excursions  astride  his  beast,  there  ever  was  a  man  who  was 
fond  of  sitting  down  with  his  feet  higher  than  his  head,  it 
was  this  selfsame  Elder  Brown. 

The  morning  expanded,  and  the  old  man  expanded  with 
it;  for  while  a  vigorous  leader  in  his  church,  the  elder  at 
home  was,  it  must  be  admitted,  an  uncomplaining  slave.  To 
the  intense  astonishment  of  the  beast  he  rode,  there  came 
new  vigor  into  the  whacks  which  fell  upon  his  flanks;  and 


ELDER   BROWN'S   BACKSLIDE  in 

die  beast  allowed  astonishment  to  surprise  him  into  real  life 
and  decided  motion.  Somewhere  in  the  elder's  expanding 
soul  a  tune  had  begun  to  ring.  Possibly  he  took  up  the  far, 
faint  tune  that  came  from  the  straggling  gang  of  negroes 
away  off  in  the  field,  as  they  slowly  chopped  amid  the  thread 
like  rows  of  cotton  plants  which  lined  the  level  ground,  for 
the  melody  he  hummed  softly  and  then  sang  strongly,  in  the 
quavering,  catchy  tones  of  a  good  old  country  churchman, 
was  "I'm  glad  salvation's  free." 

It  was  during  the  singing  of  this  hymn  that  Elder  Brown's 
regular  motion-inspiring  strokes  were  for  the  first  time  va 
ried.  He  began  to  hold  his  hickory  up  at  certain  pauses  in 
the  melody,  and  beat  the  changes  upon  the  sides  of  his  as 
tonished  steed.  The  chorus  under  this  arrangement  was: 

I'm  glad  salvation's  free, 
I'm  glad  salvation's  free, 
I'm  glad  salvation's  free  for  all, 
I'm  glad  salvation's  free. 

Wherever  there  is  an  italic,  the  hickory  descended.  It 
fell  about  as  regularly  and  after  the  fashion  of  the  stick 
beating  upon  the  bass  drum  during  a  funeral  march.  But 
the  beast,  although  convinced  that  something  serious  was 
impending,  did  not  consider  a  funeral  march  appropriate  for 
the  occasion.  He  protested,  at  first,  with  vigorous  whiskings 
of  his  tail  and  a  rapid  shifting  of  his  ears.  Finding  these 
demonstrations  unavailing,  and  convinced  that  some  urgent 
cause  for  hurry  had  suddenly  invaded  the  elder's  serenity, 
as  it  had  his  own,  he  began  to  cover  the  ground  with  frantic 
leaps  that  would  have  surprised  his  owner  could  he  have 
realized  what  was  going  on.  But  Elder  Brown's  eyes  were 
half  closed,  and  he  was  singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Lost 
in  a  trance  of  divine  exaltation,  for  he  felt  the  effects  of  the 
invigorating  motion,  bent  only  on  making  the  air  ring  with 
the  lines  which  he  dimly  imagined  were  drawing  upon  him 
the  eyes  of  the  whole  female  congregation,  he  was  supremely 
unconscious  that  his  beast  was  hurrying. 

And  thus  the  excursion  proceeded,  until  suddenly  a  shote, 
surprised  in  his  calm  search  for  roots  in  a  fence  corner,  darted 


ii2    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

into  the  road,  and  stood  for  an  instant  gazing  upon  the  new 
comers  with  that  idiotic  stare  which  only  a  pig  can  imitate. 
The  sudden  appearance  of  this  unlooked-for  apparition 
acted  strongly  upon  the  donkey.  With  one  supreme  effort 
he  collected  himself  into  a  motionless  mass  of  matter,  bracing 
his  front  legs  wide  apart;  that  is  to  say,  he  stopped  short. 
There  he  stood,  returning  the  pig's  idiotic  stare  with  an  in 
terest  which  must  have  led  to  the  presumption  that  never 
before  in  all  his  varied  life  had  he  seen  such  a  singular  little 
creature.  End  over  end  went  the  man  of  prayer,  finally 
bringing  up  full  length  in  the  sand,  striking  just  as  he  should 
have  shouted  "free"  for  the  fourth  time  in  his  glorious 
chorus. 

Fully  convinced  that  his  alarm  had  been  well  founded, 
the  shote  sped  out  from  under  the  gigantic  missile  hurled  at 
him  by  the  donkey,  and  scampered  down  the  road,  turning 
first  one  ear  and  then  the  other  to  detect  any  sounds  of  pur 
suit.  The  donkey,  also  convinced  that  the  object  before 
which  he  had  halted  was  supernatural,  started  back  violently 
upon  seeing  it  apparently  turn  to  a  man.  But  seeing  that 
it  had  turned  to  nothing  but  a  man,  he  wandered  up  into 
the  deserted  fence  corner,  and  began  to  nibble  refreshment 
from  a  scrub  oak. 

For  a  moment  the  elder  gazed  up  into  the  sky,  half  im 
pressed  with  the  idea  that  the  camp-meeting  platform  had 
given  way.  But  the  truth  forced  its  way  to  the  front  in 
his  disordered  understanding  at  last,  and  with  painful  dig 
nity  he  staggered  into  an  upright  position,  and  regained  his 
beaver.  He  was  shocked  again.  Never  before  in  all  the 
long  years  it  had  served  him  had  he  seen  it  in  such  shape. 
The  truth  is,  Elder  Brown  had  never  before  tried  to  stand 
on  his  head  in  it.  As  calmly  as  possible  he  began  to 
straighten  it  out,  caring  but  little  for  the  dust  upon  his  gar 
ments.  The  beaver  was  his  special  crown  of  dignity.  To 
lose  it  was  to  be  reduced  to  a  level  with  the  common  wool- 
hat  herd.  He  did  his  best,  pulling,  pressing,  and  pushing, 
but  the  hat  did  not  look  natural  when  he  had  finished.  It 
seemed  to  have  been  laid  off  into  counties,  sections,  and 
town  lots.  Like  a  well-cut  jewel,  it  had  a  face  for  him, 


ELDER   BROWN'S   BACKSLIDE  113 

view  it  from  whatever  point  he  chose,  a  quality  which  so 
impressed  him  that  a  lump  gathered  in  his  throat,  and  his 
eyes  winked  vigorously. 

Elder  Brown  was  not,  however,  a  man  for  tears.  He  was 
a  man  of  action.  The  sudden  vision  which  met  his  wander 
ing  gaze,  the  donkey  calmly  chewing  scrub  buds,  with  the 
green  juice  already  oozing  from  the  corners  of  his  frothy 
mouth,  acted  upon  him  like  magic.  He  was,  after  all,  only 
human,  and  when  he  got  hands  upon  a  piece  of  brush  he 
thrashed  the  poor  beast  until  it  seemed  as  though  even  its 
already  half-tanned  hide  would  be  eternally  ruined.  Thor 
oughly  exhausted  at  last,  he  wearily  straddled  his  saddle,  and 
with  his  chin  upon  his  breast  resumed  the  early  morning 
tenor  of  his  way. 

n 

"Good-mornin',  sir." 

Elder  Brown  leaned  over  the  little  pine  picket  which  di 
vided  the  bookkeepers'  department  of  a  Macon  warehouse 
from  the  room  in  general,  and  surveyed  the  well-dressed  back 
of  a  gentleman  who  was  busily  figuring  at  a  desk  within. 
The  apartment  was  carpetless,  and  the  dust  of  a  decade 
lay  deep  on  the  old  books,  shelves,  and  the  familiar  advep 
tisements  of  guano  and  fertilizers  which  decorated  the  room. 
An  old  stove,  rusty  with  the  nicotine  contributed  by  farm 
ers  during  the  previous  season  while  waiting  by  its  glowing 
sides  for  their  cotton  to  be  sold,  stood  straight  up  in  a  bed 
of  sand,  and  festoons  of  cobwebs  clung  to  the  upper  sashes 
of  the  murky  windows.  The  lower  sash  of  one  window  had 
been  raised,  and  in  the  yard  without,  nearly  an  acre  in  ex 
tent,  lay  a  few  bales  of  cotton,  with  jagged  holes  in  their 
ends,  just  as  the  sampler  had  left  them.  Elder  Brown  had 
time  to  notice  all  these  familiar  points,  for  the  figure  at  the 
desk  kept  serenely  at  its  task,  and  deigned  no  reply. 

"Good-mornin',  sir,"  said  Elder  Brown  again,  in  his  most 
dignified  tones.  "Is  Mr.  Thomas  in?" 

"Good-morning,  sir,"  said  the  figure.  "I'll  wait  on  3*011 
in  a  minute."  The  minute  passed,  and  four  more  joined  K 
Then  the  desk  man  turned. 


U4    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"Well,  sir,  what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

The  elder  was  not  in  the  best  of  humor  when  he  arrived, 
and  his  state  of  mind  had  not  improved.  He  waited  full  a 
minute  as  he  surveyed  the  man  of  business. 

"I  thought  I  mout  be  able  to  make  some  arrangements 
with  you  to  git  some  money,  but  I  reckon  I  was  mistaken." 
The  warehouse  man  came  nearer. 

"This  is  Mr.  Brown,  I  believe.  I  did  not  recognize  you 
at  once.  You  are  not  in  often  to  see  us." 

"No;  my  wife  usually  'tends  to  the  town  bizness,  while  I 
run  the  church  and  farm.  Got  a  fall  from  my  donkey  this 
morning,"  he  said,  noticing  a  quizzical,  interrogating  look 
upon  the  face  before  him,  "and  fell  squar'  on  the  hat."  He 
made  a  pretense  of  smoothing  it.  The  man  of  business  had 
already  lost  interest. 

"How  much  money  will  you  want,  Mr.  Brown?" 

"Well,  about  seven  hundred  dollars,"  said  the  elder,  re 
placing  his  hat,  and  turning  a  furtive  look  upon  the  ware 
house  man.  The  other  was  tapping  with  his  pencil  upon 
the  little  shelf  lying  across  the  rail. 

"I  can  get  you  five  hundred." 

"But  I  oughter  have  seven." 

"Can't  arrange  for  that  amount.  Wait  till  later  in  the 
season,  and  come  again.  Money  is  very  tight  now.  How 
much  cotton  will  you  raise?" 

"Well,  I  count  on  a  hundr'd  bales.  An'  you  can't  git  the 
sev'n  hundr'd  dollars?" 

"Like  to  oblige  you,  but  can't  right  now;  will  fix  it  for 
you  later  on." 

"Well,"  said  the  elder,  slowly,  "fix  up  the  papers  for  five, 
an'  I'll  make  it  go  as  far  as  possible." 

The  papers  were  drawn.  A  note  was  made  out  for  $552.50, 
for  the  interest  was  at  one  and  a  half  per  cent,  for  seven 
months,  and  a  mortgage  on  ten  mules  belonging  to  the  elder 
was  drawn  and  signed.  The  elder  then  promised  to  send 
his  cotton  to  the  warehouse  to  be  sold  in  the  fall,  and  with, 
a  curt  "Anything  else?"  and  a  "Thankee,  that's  all,"  the 
two  parted. 

Elder  Brown  now  made  an  effort  to  recall  the  supplemental 


ELDER   BROWN'S    BACKSLIDE  115 

commissions  shouted  to  him  upon  his  departure,  in 
tending  to  execute  them  first,  and  then  take  his  written  list 
item  by  item.  His  mental  resolves  had  just  reached  this 
point  when  a  new  'thought  made  itself  known.  Passersby 
were  puzzled  to  see  the  old  man  suddenly  snatch  his  head 
piece  off  and  peer  with  an  intent  and  awestruck  air  into  its 
irregular  caverns.  Some  of  them  were  shocked  when  he 
suddenly  and  vigorously  ejaculated: 

" Hannah-Maria- Jemimy!  goldarn  an'  blue  blazes!" 

He  had  suddenly  remembered  having  placed  his  memo 
randa  in  that  hat,  and  as  he  studied  its  empty  depths  his 
mind  pictured  the  important  scrap  fluttering  along  the  sandy 
scene  of  his  early-morning  tumble.  It  was  this  that  caused 
him  to  graze  an  oath  with  less  margin  that  he  had  allowed 
himself  in  twenty  years.  What  would  the  old  lady  say? 

Alas!  Elder  Brown  knew  too  well.  What  she  would  not 
say  was  what  puzzled  him.  But  as  he  stood  bareheaded 
in  the  sunlight  a  sense  of  utter  desolation  came  and  dwelt 
with  him.  His  eye  rested  upon  sleeping  Balaam  anchored 
to  a  post  in  the  street,  and  so  as  he  recalled  the  treachery  that 
lay  at  the  base  of  all  his  affliction,  gloom  was  added  to  the 
desolation. 

To  turn  back  and  search  for  the  lost  paper  would  have 
been  worse  than  useless.  Only  one  course  was  open  to  him, 
and  at  it  went  the  leader  of  his  people.  He  called  at  the 
grocery;  he  invaded  the  recesses  of  the  dry-goods  establish 
ments;  he  ransacked  the  hardware  stores;  and  wherever 
he  went  he  made  life  a  burden  for  the  clerks,  overhauling 
show-cases  and  pulling  down  whole  shelves  of  stock.  Occa 
sionally  an  item  of  his  memoranda  would  come  to  light,  and 
thrusting  his  hand  into  his  capacious  pocket,  where  lay  the 
proceeds  of  his  check,  he  would  pay  for  it  upon  the  spot, 
and  insist  upon  having  it  rolled  up.  To  the  suggestion  of 
the  slave  whom  he  had  in  charge  for  the  time  being  that 
the  articles  be  laid  aside  until  he  had  finished,  he  would  not 
listen. 

"Now  you  look  here,  sonny,"  he  said,  in  the  dry-goods 
store,  "I'm  conducting  this  revival,  an'  I  don't  need  no  help 
in  my  line.  Just  you  tie  them  stockin's  up  an'  lemme  have 


ii6    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

'em.  Then  I  know  I've  got  'em."  As  each  purchase  was 
promptly  paid  for,  and  change  had  to  be  secured,  the  clerk 
earned  his  salary  for  that  day  at  least. 

So  it  was  when,  near  the  heat  of  the  day,  the  good  man 
arrived  at  the  drugstore,  the  last  and  only  unvisited  division 
of  trade,  he  made  his  appearance  equipped  with  half  a 
hundred  packages,  which  nestled  in  his  arms  and  bulged  out 
about  the  sections  of  his  clothing  that  boasted  of  pockets. 
As  he  deposited  his  deck-load  upon  the  counter,  great  drops 
of  perspiration  rolled  down  his  face  and  over  his  water 
logged  collar  to  the  floor. 

There  was  something  exquisitely  refreshing  in  the  great 
glasses  of  foaming  soda  that  a  spruce  young  man  was  draw 
ing  from  a  marble  fountain,  above  which  half  a  dozen  polar 
bears  in  an  ambitious  print  were  disporting  themselves. 
There  came  a  break  in  the  run  of  customers,  and  the  spruce 
young  man,  having  swept  the  foam  from  the  marble,  dex 
terously  lifted  a  glass  from  the  revolving  rack  which  had 
rinsed  it  with  a  fierce  little  stream  of  water,  and  asked 
mechanically,  as  he  caught  the  intense  look  of  the  perspiring 
elder,  "What  syrup,  sir?" 

Now  it  had  not  occurred  to  the  elder  to  drink  soda,  but 
the  suggestion,  coming  as  it  did  in  his  exhausted  state,  was 
overpowering.  He  drew  near  awkwardly,  put  on  his  glasses, 
and  examined  the  list  of  syrups  with  great  care.  The  young 
man,  being  for  the  moment  at  leisure,  surveyed  critically 
the  gaunt  figure,  the  faded  bandanna,  the  antique  claw 
hammer  coat,  and  the  battered  stove-pipe  hat,  with  a  gradu 
ally  relaxing  countenance.  He  even  called  the  prescription 
clerk's  attention  by  a  cough  and  a  quick  jerk  of  the  thumb. 
The  prescription  clerk  smiled  freely,  and  continued  his  as 
saults  upon  a  piece  of  blue  mass. 

"I  reckon,"  said  the  elder,  resting  his  hands  upon  his 
knees  and  bending  down  to  the  list,  "you  may  gimme  sass- 
prilla  an'  a  little  strawberry.  Sassprilla's  good  for  the  blood 
this  time  er  year,  an'  strawberry's  good  any  time." 

The  spruce  young  man  let  the  syrup  stream  into  the  glass 
as  he  smiled  affably.  Thinking,  perhaps,  to  draw  out  the 
odd  character,  he  ventured  upon  a  jest  himself,  repeating  a 


ELDER    BROWN'S    BACKSLIDE  117 

pun  invented  by  the  man  who  made  the  first  soda  fountain. 
With  a  sweep  of  his  arm  he  cleared  away  the  swarm  of  in 
sects  as  he  remarked,  "People  who  like  a  fly  in  theirs  are 
easily  accommodated." 

It  was  from  sheer  good-nature  only  that  Elder  Brown 
replied,  with  his  usual  broad,  social  smile,  "Well,  a  fly  now 
an'  then  don't  hurt  nobody." 

Now  if  there  is  anybody  in  the  world  who  prides  himself 
on  knowing  a  thing  or  two,  it  is  the  spruce  young  man  who 
presides  over  a  soda  fountain.  This  particular  young  gen 
tleman  did  not  even  deem  a  reply  necessary.  He  vanished 
an  instant,  and  when  he  returned  a  close  observer  might 
have  seen  that  the  mixture  in  the  glass  he  bore  had  slightly 
changed  color  and  increased  in  quantity.  But  the  elder 
saw  only  the  whizzing  stream  of  water  dart  into  its  center, 
and  the  rosy  foam  rise  and  tremble  on  the  glass's  rim.  The 
next  instant  he  was  holding  his  breath  and  sipping  the  cool 
ing  drink. 

As  Elder  Brown  paid  his  small  score  he  was  at  peace  with 
the  world.  I  firmly  believe  that  when  he  had  finished  his 
trading,  and  the  little  blue-stringed  packages  had  been  stored 
away,  could  the  poor  donkey  have  made  his  appearance  at 
the  door,  and  gazed  with  his  meek,  fawnlike  eyes  into  his 
master's,  he  would  have  obtained  full  and  free  forgive* 
ness. 

Elder  Brown  paused  at  the  door  as  he  was  about  to  leave. 
A  rosy-cheeked  school-girl  was  just  lifting  a  creamy  mixture 
to  her  lips  before  the  fountain.  It  was  a  pretty  picture,  and 
he  turned  back,  resolved  to  indulge  in  one  more  glass  of  tha 
delightful  beverage  before  beginning  his  long  ride  home 
ward. 

"Fix  it  up  again,  sonny,"  he  said,  renewing  his  broad, 
confiding  smile,  as  the  spruce  young  man  poised  a  glass  in 
quiringly.  The  living  automaton  went  through  the  same 
motions  as  before,  and  again  Elder  Brown  quaffed  the  fatal 
mixture. 

What  a  singular  power  is  habit!  Up  to  this  time  Elder 
Brown  had  been  entirely  innocent  of  transgression,  but  with 
the  old  alcoholic  fire  in  his  veins,  twenty  years  dropped  from 


n8    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

his  shoulders,  and  a  feeling  came  over  him  familiar  to  every 
man  who  has  been  "in  his  cups."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
elder  would  have  been  a  confirmed  drunkard  twenty  years 
before  had  his  wife  been  less  strong-minded.  She  took  the 
reins  into  her  own  hands  when  she  found  that  his  business 
and  strong  drink  did  not  mix  well,  worked  him  into  the 
church,  sustained  his  resolutions  by  making  it  difficult  and 
dangerous  for  him  to  get  to  his  toddy.  She  became  the  busi 
ness  head  of  the  family,  and  he  the  spiritual.  Only  at  rare 
intervals  did  he  ever  ''backslide"  during  the  twenty  years  of 
the  new  era,  and  Mrs.  Brown  herself  used  to  say  that  the 
"sugar  in  his'n  turned  to  gall  before  the  backslide  ended." 
People  who  knew  her  never  doubted  it. 

But  Elder  Brown's  sin  during  the  remainder  of  the  day 
contained  an  element  of  responsibility.  As  he  moved  ma 
jestically  down  toward  where  Balaam  slept  in  the  sunlight, 
he  felt  no  fatigue.  There  was  a  glow  upon  his  cheek-bones, 
and  a  faint  tinge  upon  his  prominent  nose.  He  nodded 
familiarly  to  people  as  he  met  them,  and  saw  not  the  look 
of  amusement  which  succeeded  astonishment  upon  the  vari 
ous  faces.  When  he  reached  the  neighborhood  of  Balaam 
it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  have  forgotten 
some  one  of  his  numerous  commissions,  and  he  paused  to 
think.  Then  a  brilliant  idea  rose  in  his  mind.  He  would 
forestall  blame  and  disarm  anger  with  kindness — he  would 
purchase  Hannah  a  bonnet. 

What  woman's  heart  ever  failed  to  soften  at  sight  of  a 
new  bonnet? 

As  I  have  stated,  the  elder  was  a  man  of  action.  He  en 
tered  a  store  near  at  hand. 

"Good-morning,"  said  an  affable  gentleman  with  a  He 
brew  countenance,  approaching. 

"Good-mornin',  good-mornin',"  said  the  elder,  piling  his 
bundles  on  the  counter.  "I  hope  you  are  well?"  Elder 
Brown  extended  his  hand  fervidly. 

"Quite  well,  I  thank  you.     What " 

"And  the  little  wife?"  said  Elder  Brown,  affectionately 
retaining  the  Jew's  hand. 

"Quite  well,  sir." 


ELDER   BROWN'S    BACKSLIDE  no 

"And  the  little  ones — quite  well,  I  hope,  too?" 

"Yes,  sir;  all  well,  thank  you.  Something  I  can  do  for 
you?" 

The  affable  merchant  was  trying  to  recall  his  customer's 
name. 

"Not  now,  not  now,  thankee.  If  you  please  to  let  my 
bundles  stay  untell  I  come  back- 


"Can't  I  show  you  something?    Hat,  coat " 

"Not  now.    Be  back  bimeby." 

Was  it  chance  or  fate  that  brought  Elder  Brown  in  front 
of  a  bar?  The  glasses  shone  bright  upon  the  shelves  as  the 
swinging  door  flapped  back  to  let  out  a  coatless  clerk,  who 
passed  him  with  a  rush,  chewing  upon  a  farewell  mouthful 
of  brown  bread  and  bologna.  Elder  Brown  beheld  for  an 
instant  the  familiar  scene  within.  The  screws  of  his  reso 
lution  had  been  loosened.  At  sight  of  the  glistening  bar  the 
whole  moral  structure  of  twenty  years  came  tumbling  down. 
Mechanically  he  entered  the  saloon,  and  laid  a  silver  quarter 
upon  the  bar  as  he  said: 

"A  little  whiskey  an'  sugar."  The  arms  of  the  bar 
tender  worked  like  a  faker's  in  a  side  show  as  he  set  out 
the  glass  with  its  little  quota  of  "short  sweetening"  and  a 
cut-glass  decanter,  and  sent  a  half-tumbler  of  water  spin 
ning  along  from  the  upper  end  of  the  bar  with  a  dime  in 
change. 

"Whiskey  is  higher'n  used  to  be,"  said  Elder  Brown;  but 
the  bartender  was  taking  another  order,  and  did  not  hear 
him.  Elder  Brown  stirred  away  the  sugar,  and  let  a  steady 
stream  of  red  liquid  flow  into  the  glass.  He  swallowed  the 
drink  as  unconcernedly  as  though  his  morning  tod  had  never 
been  suspended,  and  pocketed  the  change.  "But  it  ain't  any 
better  than  it  was,"  he  concluded,  as  he  passed  out.  He  did 
not  even  seem  to  realize  that  he  had  done  anything  extraor 
dinary. 

There  was  a  millinery  store  up  the  street,  and  thither  with 
uncertain  step  he  wended  his  way,  feeling  a  little  more 
elate,  and  altogether  sociable.  A  pretty,  black-eyed  girl, 
struggling  to  keep  down  her  mirth,  came  forward  and  faced 
him  behind  the  counter.  Elder  Brown  lifted  his  faded  hat 


izo    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

with  the  politeness,  if  not  the  grace,  of  a  Castilian,  and  made 
a  sweeping  bow.  Again  he  was  in  his  element.  But  he  did 
not  speak.  A  shower  of  odds  and  ends,  small  packages, 
thread,  needles,  and  buttons,  released  from  their  prison,  rat 
tled  down  about  him. 

The  girl  laughed.  She  could  not  help  it.  And  the  elder, 
leaning  his  hand  on  the  counter,  laughed,  too,  until  several 
other  girls  came  half-way  to  the  front.  Then  they,  hiding 
behind  counters  and  suspended  cloaks,  laughed  and  snickered 
until  they  reconvulsed  the  elder's  vis-a-vis,  who  had  been 
making  desperate  efforts  to  resume  her  demure  appear 
ance. 

"Let  me  help  you,  sir,"  she  said,  coming  from  behind  the 
counter,  upon  seeing  Elder  Brown  beginning  to  adjust  his 
spectacles  for  a  search.  He  waved  her  back  majestically. 
"No,  my  dear,  no;  can't  allow  it.  You  mout  sile  them  purty 
fingers.  No,  ma'am.  No  gen '1 'man  '11  'low  er  lady  to  do 
such  a  thing."  The  elder  was  gently  forcing  the  girl  back  to 
her  place.  "Leave  it  to  me.  I've  picked  up  bigger  things 
'n  them.  Picked  myself  up  this  mornin'.  Balaam — you 
ion't  know  Balaam;  he's  my  donkey — he  tumbled  me  over 
lis  head  in  the  sand  this  momin'."  And  Elder  Brown  had 
X)  resume  an  upright  position  until  his  paroxysm  of  laugh 
ter  had  passed.  "You  see  this  old  hat?"  extending  it,  half 
full  of  packages;  "I  fell  clear  inter  it;  jes'  as  clean  inter  it 
as  them  things  thar  fell  out'n  it."  He  laughed  again,  and 
50  did  the  girls.  "But,  my  dear,  I  whaled  half  the  hide  off'n 
him  for  it." 

"Oh,  sir!  how  could  you?  Indeed,  sir.  I  think  you  did 
wrong.  The  poor  brute  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing,  I 
dare  say.  and  probably  he  has  been  a  faithful  friend."  The 
girl  cast  her  mischievous  eyes  towards  her  companions,  who 
snickered  again.  The  old  man  was  not  conscious  of  the 
sarcasm.  He  only  saw  reproach.  His  face  straightened,  and 
he  regarded  the  girl  soberly. 

"Mebbe  you're  right,  my  dear;  mebbe  I  oughtn't." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,'"  said  the  girl.  "But  now  don't  you  want 
to  buy  a  bonnet  or  a  cloak  to  carry  home  to  your  wife?" 

"Well,  you're  whistlin'  now,  birdie;  that's  my  intention; 


ELDER   BROWN'S    BACKSLIDE  121 

set  'em  all  out."  Again  the  elder's  face  shone  with  delight. 
"An'  I  don't  want  no  one-hoss  bonnet  neither." 

"Of  course  not.  Now  here  is  one;  pink  silk,  with  deli 
cate  pale  blue  feathers.  Just  the  thing  for  the  season.  We 
have  nothing  more  elegant  in  stock."  Elder  Brown  held  it 
out,  upside  down,  at  arm's-length. 

"Well,  now,  that's  suthin'  like.  Will  it  soot  a  sorter  red 
headed  'ooman?" 

A  perfectly  sober  man  would  have  said  the  girl's  corsets 
must  have  undergone  a  terrible  strain,  but  the  elder  did  not 
notice  her  dumb  convulsion.  She  answered,  heroically: 

"Perfectly,  sir.     It  is  an  exquisite  match." 

"I  think  you're  whistlin'  again.  Nancy's  head's  red,  red 
as  a  woodpeck's.  Sorrel's  only  half-way  to  the  color  of  hef 
top-knot,  an'  it  do  seem  like  red  oughter  to  soot  red.  Nan 
cy's  red  an'  the  hat's  red;  like  goes  with  like,  an'  birds  of  a 
feather  flock  together."  The  old  man  laughed  until  1m 
cheeks  were  wet. 

The  girl,  beginning  to  feel  a  little  uneasy,  and  seeing  a 
customer  entering,  rapidly  fixed  up  the  bonnet,  took  fifteen 
dollars  out  of  a  twenty-dollar  bill,  and  calmly  asked  the 
elder  if  he  wanted  anything  else.  He  thrust  his  change  some 
where  into  his  clothes,  and  beat  a  retreat.  It  had  occurred 
to  him  that  he  was  nearly  drunk. 

Elder  Brown's  step  began  to  lose  its  buoyancy.  He  found 
himself  utterly  unable  to  walk  straight.  There  was  an  un 
certain  straddle  in  his  gait  that  carried  him  from  one  side 
of  the  walk  to  the  other,  and  caused  people  whom  he  met  to 
cheerfully  yield  him  plenty  of  room. 

Balaam  saw  him  coming.  Poor  Balaam.  He  had  made 
an  early  start  that  day,  and  for  hours  he  stood  in  the  sun 
awaiting  relief.  When  he  opened  his  sleepy  eyes  and  raised 
his  expressive  ears  to  a  position  of  attention,  the  old  familiar 
coat  and  battered  hat  of  the  elder  were  before  him.  He 
lifted  up  his  honest  voice  and  cried  aloud  for  joy. 

The  effect  was  electrical  for  one  instant.  Elder  Brown 
surveyed  the  beast  with  horror,  but  again  in  his  understand* 
ing  there  rang  out  the  trumpet  words. 

"Drunk,  drunk,  drunk,  drer-unc,  -er-unc,  -unc,  -unc." 


122    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

He  stooped  instinctively  for  a  missile  with  which  to  smite 
his  accuser,  but  brought  up  suddenly  with  a  jerk  and  a 
handful  of  sand.  Straightening  himself  up  with  a  majestic 
dignity,  he  extended  his  right  hand  impressively. 

"You're  a  goldarn  liar,  Balaam,  and,  blast  your  old  but 
tons,  you  kin  walk  home  by  yourself,  for  I'm  danged  if  you 
sh'll  ride  me  er  step." 

Surely  Coriolanus  never  turned  his  back  upon  Rome  with 
a  grander  dignity  than  sat  upon  the  old  man's  form  as  he 
faced  about  and  left  the  brute  to  survey  with  anxious  eyes 
the  new  departure  of  his  master. 

He  saw  the  elder  zigzag  along  the  street,  and  beheld  him 
about  to  turn  a  friendly  corner.  Once  more  he  lifted  up  his 
mighty  voice: 

"Drunk,  drunk,  drunk,  drer-unc,  drer-unc,  -erunc,  -unc, 
-unc." 

Once  more  the  elder  turned  with  lifted  hand  and  shouted 
back: 

"You're  a  liar,  Balaam,  goldam  you!  You're  er  iffamous 
!iar."  Then  he  passed  from  view. 

Ill 

Mrs.  Brown  stood  upon  the  steps  anxiously  awaiting  the 
return  of  her  liege  lord.  She  knew  he  had  with  him  a  large 
sum  of  money,  or  should  have,  and  she  knew  also  that  he 
was  a  man  without  business  methods.  She  had  long  since 
repented  of  the  decision  which  sent  him  to  town.  When  the 
old  battered  hat  and  flour-covered  coat  loomed  up  in  the 
gloaming  and  confronted  her,  she  stared  with  terror.  The 
next  instant  she  had  seized  him. 

"For  the  Lord  sakes,  Elder  Brown,  what  ails  you?  As 
I  live,  if  the  man  ain't  drunk!  Elder  Brown!  Elder  Brown! 
for  the  life  of  me  can't  I  make  you  hear?  You  crazy  old 
hypocrite!  you  desavin'  old  sinner!  you  black-hearted  wretch! 
where  have  you  ben?" 

The  elder  made  an  effort  to  wave  her  off. 

"Woman,"  he  said,  with  grand  dignity,  "you  forgit  yus- 
sef;  shu  know  ware  I've  ben  'swell's  I  do.  Ben  to  town, 


ELDER   BROWN'S   BACKSLIDE  123 

wife,  an'  see  yer  wat  I've  brought — the  fines'  hat,  ole 
woman,  I  could  git.  Look  't  the  color.  Like  goes  'ith  like; 
it's  red  an'  you're  red,  an'  it's  a  dead  match.  What  yer 
mean?  Hey!  hole  on!  ole  woman! — you!  Hannah! — you." 
She  literally  shook  him  into  silence. 

"You  miserable  wretch!  you  low-down  drunken  sot!  what 
do  you  mean  by  coming  home  and  insulting  your  wife?" 
Hannah  ceased  shaking  him  from  pure  exhaustion. 

"Where  is  it,  I  say?  where  is  it?" 

By  this  time  she  was  turning  his  pockets  wrong  side  out* 
From  one  she  got  pills,  from  another  change,  from  another 
packages. 

"The  Lord  be  praised,  and  this  is  better  luck  than  I  hoped! 
Oh,  elder!  elder!  elder!  what  did  you  do  it  for?  Why, 
man,  where  is  Balaam?" 

Thought  of  the  beast  choked  off  the  threatened  hysterics. 

"Balaam?  Balaam?"  said  the  elder,  groggily.  "He's  in 
town.  The  infernal  ole  fool  'suited  me,  an'  I  lef  him  to 
walk  home." 

His  wife  surveyed  him.  Really  at  that  moment  she  did 
think  his  mind  was  gone;  but  the  leer  upon  the  old  man'? 
face  enraged  her  beyond  endurance. 

"You  did,  did  you?  Well,  now,  I  reckon  you'll  laugh  for 
some  cause,  you  will.  Back  you  go,  sir — straight  back;  an' 
don't  you  come  home  'thout  that  donkey,  or  you'll  rue  it, 
sure  as  my  name  is  Hannah  Brown.  Aleck! — you 
Aleck-k-k!" 

A  black  boy  darted  round  the  corner,  from  behind  which, 
with  several  others,  he  had  beheld  the  brief  but  stirring 
scene. 

"Put  a  saddle  on  er  mule.  The  elder's  gwine  back  to 
[town.  And  don't  you  be  long  about  it  neither." 

"Yessum."  Aleck's  ivories  gleamed  in  the  darkness  as  htf 
disappeared. 

Elder  Brown  was  soberer  at  that  moment  than  he  had 
been  for  hours. 

"Hannah,  you  don't  mean  it?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  do.  Back  you  go  to  town  as  sure  as  my  name 
is  Hannah  Brown." 


M24    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

The  elder  was  silent.  He  had  never  known  his  wife  to 
relent  on  any  occasion  after  she  had  affirmed  her  intention, 
supplemented  with  "as  sure  as  my  name  is  Hannah  Brown." 
It  was  her  way  of  swearing.  No  affidavit  would  have  had 
half  the  claim  upon  her  as  that  simple  enunciation. 

So  back  to  town  went  Elder  Brown,  not  in  the  order  of 
the  early  morn,  but  silently,  moodily,  despairingly,  sur 
rounded  by  mental  and  actual  gloom. 

The  old  man  had  turned  a  last  appealing  glance  upon  the 
angry  woman,  as  he  mounted  with  Aleck's  assistance,  and 
sat  in  the  light  that  streamed  from  out  the  kitchen  window. 
She  met  the  glance  without  a  waver. 

aShe  means  it,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Elder  Brown,"  he 
said,  thickly.  Then  he  rode  on. 

IV 

To  say  that  Elder  Brown  suffered  on  this  long  journey 
back  to  Macon  would  only  mildly  outline  his  experience. 
His  early  morning's  fall  had  begun  to  make  itself  felt.  He 
was  sore  and  uncomfortable.  Besides,  his  stomach  was 
empty,  and  called  for  two  meals  it  had  missed  for  the  first 
time  in  years. 

When,  sore  and  weary,  the  elder  entered  the  city,  the 
electric  lights  shone  above  it  like  jewels  in  a  crown.  The 
city  slept;  that  is,  the  better  portion  of  it  did.  Here  and 
there,  however,  the  lower  lights  flashed  out  into  the  night. 
Moodily  the  elder  pursued  his  journey,  and  as  he  rode,  far 
off  in  the  night  there  rose  and  quivered  a  plaintive  cry. 
Elder  Brown  smiled  wearily:  it  was  Balaam's  appeal,  and 
he  recognized  it.  The  animal  he  rode  also  recognized  it, 
and  replied,  until  the  silence  of  the  city  was  destroyed.  The 
odd  damor  and  confusion  drew  from  a  saloon  near  by  a 
group  of  noisy  youngsters,  who  had  been  making  a  night  of 
it.  They  surrounded  Elder  Brown  as  he  began  to  transfer 
himself  to  the  hungry  beast  to  whose  motion  he  was  more 
accustomed,  and  in  the  "hail  fellow  well  met"  style  of  the 
day  began  to  bandy  jests  upon  his  appearance.  Now  Elder 
Brown  was  not  in  a  jesting  humor.  Positively  he  was  in 


ELDER   BROWN'S    BACKSLIDE  125 

the  worst  humor  possible.  The  result  was  that  before  many 
minutes  passed  the  old  man  was  swinging  several  of  the 
crowd  by  their  collars,  and  breaking  the  peace  of  the  city. 
A  policeman  approached,  and  but  for  the  good-humored 
party,  upon  whom  the  elder's  pluck  had  made  a  favorable 
impression,  would  have  run  the  old  man  into  the  barracks. 
The  crowd,  however,  drew  him  laughingly  into  the  saloon 
and  to  the  bar.  The  reaction  was  too  much  for  his  half- 
rallied  senses.  He  yielded  again.  The  reviving  liquor 
passed  his  lips.  Gloom  vanished.  He  became  one  of  the 
boys. 

The  company  into  which  Elder  Brown  had  fallen  was 
what  is  known  as  "first-class."  To  such  nothing  is  so  cap 
tivating  as  an  adventure  out  of  the  common  run  of  acci 
dents.  The  gaunt  countryman,  with  his  battered  hat  and 
claw-hammer  coat,  was  a  prize  of  an  extraordinary  nature. 
They  drew  him  into  a  rear  room,  whose  gilded  frames  and 
polished  tables  betrayed  the  character  and  purpose  of  the 
place,  and  plied  him  with  wine  until  ten  thousand  lights 
danced  about  him.  The  fun  increased.  One  youngster 
made  a  political  speech  from  the  top  of  the  table;  another 
impersonated  Hamlet;  and  finally  Elder  Brown  was  lifted 
into  a  chair,  and  sang  a  camp-meeting  song.  This  was  ren 
dered  by  him  with  startling  effect.  He  stood  upright,  with 
his  hat  jauntily  knocked  to  one  side,  and  his  coat  tails  orna 
mented  with  a  couple  of  show-bills,  kindly  pinned  on  by 
his  admirers.  In  his  left  hand  he  waved  the  stub  of  a  cigar, 
and  on  his  back  was  an  admirable  representation  of  Ba 
laam's  head,  executed  by  some  artist  with  billiard  chalk. 

As  the  elder  sang  his  favorite  hymn,  "I'm  glad  salvation's 
free,"  his  stentorian  voice  awoke  the  echoes.  Most  of  the 
company  rolled  upon  the  floor  in  convulsions  of  laughter. 

The  exhibition  came  to  a  close  by  the  chair  overturning. 
Again  Elder  Brown  fell  into  his  beloved  hat.  He  arose  and 
shouted:  "Whoa,  Balaam!"  Again  he  seized  the  nearest 
weapon,  and  sought  satisfaction.  The  young  gentleman 
with  political  sentiments  was  knocked  under  the  table,  and 
Hamlet  only  escaped  injury  by  beating  the  infuriated  elder 
into  the  street. 


126    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

What  next?  Well,  I  hardly  know.  How  the  elder  found 
Balaam  is  a  mystery  yet:  not  that  Balaam  was  hard  to  find, 
but  that  the  old  man  was  in  no  condition  to  find  anything. 
Still  he  did,  and  climbing  laboriously  into  the  saddle,  he  held 
on  staidly  while  the  hungry  beast  struck  out  for  home. 


Hannah  Brown  did  not  sleep  that  night.  Sleep  would  not 
come.  Hour  after  hour  passed,  and  her  wrath  refused  to  be 
quelled.  She  tried  every  conceivable  method,  but  time  hung 
heavily.  It  was  not  quite  peep  of  day,  however,  when  she 
laid  her  well-worn  family  Bible  aside.  It  had  been  her 
mother's,  and  amid  all  the  anxieties  and  tribulations  incident 
to  the  life  of  a  woman  who  had  free  negroes  and  a  miserable 
husband  to  manage,  it  had  been  her  mainstay  and  comfort. 
She  had  frequently  read  it  in  anger,  page  after  page,  with 
out  knowing  what  was  contained  in  the  lines.  But  eventu 
ally  the  words  became  intelligible  and  took  meaning.  She 
wrested  consolation  from  it  by  mere  force  of  will. 

And  so  on  this  occasion  when  she  closed  the  book  the  fierce 
anger  was  gone. 

She  was  not  a  hard  woman  naturally.  Fate  had  brought 
her  conditions  which  covered  up  the  woman  heart  within 
her,  but  though  it  lay  deep,  it  was  there  still.  As  she  sat 
with  folded  hands  her  eyes  fell  upon — what? 

The  pink  bonnet  with  the  blue  plume! 

It  may  appear  strange  to  those  who  do  not  understand 
such  natures,  but  to  me  her  next  action  was  perfectly  nat 
ural.  She  burst  into  a  convulsive  laugh;  then,  seizing  the 
queer  object,  bent  her  face  upon  it  and  sobbed  hysterically. 
When  the  storm  was  over,  very  tenderly  she  laid  the  gift 
aside,  and  bare-headed  passed  out  into  the  night. 

For  a  half-hour  she  stood  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  and  tihen 
hungry  Balaam  and  his  master  hove  in  sight.  Reaching  out 
her  hand,  she  checked  the  beast. 

"William,"  said  she,  very  gently,  "where  is  the  mule?" 

The  elder  had  been  asleep.  He  wcke  and  gazed  upon 
her  blankly. 


ELDER   BROWN'S   BACKSLIDE  127 

"What  mule,  Hannah?" 

"The  mule  you  rode  to  town." 

For  one  full  minute  the  elder  studied  her  face.  Then  it 
burst  from  his  lips: 

"Well,  bless  me!  if  I  didn't  bring  Balaam  and  forgit  the 
mule!" 

The  woman  laughed  till  her  eyes  ran  water. 

"William,"  said  she,  "you're  drunk." 

"Hannah,"  said  he,  meekly,  "I  know  it.  The  truth  is, 
Hannah,  I " 

"Never  mind,  now,  William,"  she  said,  gently.  "You  arf 
tired  and  hungry.  Come  into  the  house,  husband." 

Leading  Balaam,  she  disappeared  down  the  lane;  and 
when,  a  few  minutes  later,  Hannah  Brown  and  her  husband 
entered  through  the  light  that  streamed  out  of  the  open  door, 
her  arms  were  around  him,  and  her  face  upturned  to  his. 


THE  HOTEL  EXPERIENCE 
OF  MR.  PINK  FLUKER 

BY  RICHARD  MALCOLM  JOHNSTON   (1822-1898) 


MR.  PETERSON  FLUKER,  generally  called  Pink,  for 
his  fondness  for  as  stylish  dressing  as  he  could  af 
ford,  was  one  of  that  sort  of  men  who  habitually 
seem  busy  and  efficient  when  they  are  not.  He  had  the 
bustling  activity  often  noticeable  in  men  of  his  size,  and  in 
one  way  and  another  had  made  up,  as  he  believed,  for  being 
so  much  smaller  than  most  of  his  adult  acquaintance  of  the 
male  sex.  Prominent  among  his  achievements  on  that  line 
was  getting  married  to  a  woman  who,  among  other  excellent 
gifts,  had  that  of  being  twice  as  big  as  her  husband. 

"Fool  who?"  on  the  day  after  his  marriage  he  had  asked, 
with  a  look  at  those  who  had  often  said  that  he  was  too 
little  to  have  a  wife. 

They  had  a  little  property  to  begin  with,  a  couple  of  hun 
dreds  of  acres,  and  two  or  three  negroes  apiece.  Yet,  except 
in  the  natural  increase  of  the  latter,  the  accretions  of  worldly 
estate  had  been  inconsiderable  till  now,  when  their  oldest 
child,  Marann,  was  some  fifteen  years  old.  These  accretions 
had  been  saved  and  taken  care  of  by  Mrs.  Fluker,  who  was 
as  staid  and  silent  as  he  was  mobile  and  voluble. 

Mr.  Fluker  often  said  that  it  puzzled  him  how  it  was  that 
he  made  smaller  crops  than  most  of  his  neighbors,  when,  if 
not  always  convincing,  he  could  generally  put  every  one  of 

From  The  Century  Magazine,  June,  1886;  copyright,  1886,  by 
The  Century  Co. ;  republished  in  the  volume,  Mr.  Absalom  Bil- 
lingslea,  and  Other  Georgia  Folk.  (1888),  by  Richard  Malcolm 
Johnston  (Harper  &  Brothers). 

128 


HOTEL  EXPERIENCE  OF  MR.  PINK  FLUKER    i2<> 

them  to  silence  in  discussions  upon  agricultural  topics.  This 
puzzle  had  led  him  to  not  unfrequent  ruminations  in  his  mind 
as  to  whether  or  not  his  vocation  might  lie  in  something 
higher  than  the  mere  tilling  of  the  ground.  These  rumina 
tions  had  lately  taken  a  definite  direction,  and  it  was  after 
several  conversations  which  he  had  held  with  his  friend 
Matt  Pike. 

Mr.  Matt  Pike  was  a  bachelor  of  some  thirty  summers,  a 
foretime  clerk  consecutively  in  each  of  the  two  stores  of  the 
village,  but  latterly  a  trader  on  a  limited  scale  in  horses, 
wagons,  cows,  and  similar  objects  of  commerce,  and  at  all 
times  a  politician.  His  hopes  of  holding  office  had  been 
continually  disappointed  until  Mr.  John  Sanks  became 
sheriff,  and  rewarded  with  a  deputyship  some  important 
special  service  rendered  by  him  in  the  late  very  close  can 
vass.  Now  was  a  chance  to  rise,  Mr.  Pike  thought.  All  he 
wanted,  he  had  often  said,  was  a  start.  Politics,  I  would 
remark,  however,  had  been  regarded  by  Mr.  Pike  as  a  means 
rather  than  an  end.  It  is  doubtful  if  he  hoped  to  become 
governor  of  the  state,  at  least  before  an  advanced  period  ir 
his  career.  His  main  object  now  was  to  get  money,  and 
he  believed  that  official  position  would  promote  him  in  the 
line  of  his  ambition  faster  than  was  possible  to  any  private 
station,  by  leading  him  into  more  extensive  acquaintance 
with  mankind,  their  needs,  their  desires,  and  their  caprices. 
A  deputy  sheriff,  provided  that  lawyers  were  not  too  indul 
gent  in  allowing  acknowledgment  of  service  of  court  pro 
cesses,  in  postponing  levies  and  sales,  and  in  settlement  of 
litigated  cases,  might  pick  up  three  hundred  dollars,  a  good 
sum  for  those  times,  a  fact  which  Mr.  Pike  had  known  and 
pondered  long. 

It  happened  just  about  then  that  the  arrears  of  rent  for 
the  village  hotel  had  so  accumulated  on  Mr.  Spouter,  the 
last  occupant,  that  the  owner,  an  indulgent  man,  finally  had 
said,  what  he  had  been  expected  for  years  and  years  to  say, 
that  he  could  not  wait  on  Mr.  Spouter  forever  and  eter 
nally.  It  was  at  this  very  nick,  so  to  speak,  that  Mr.  Pike 
made  to  Mr.  Fluker  the  suggestion  to  quit  a  business  so  far 
beneath  his  powers,  sell  out,  or  rent  out,  or  tenant  out,  or 


130    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

do  something  else  with  his  farm,  march  into  town,  plant 
himself  upon  the  ruins  of  Jacob  Spouter,  and  begin  his  up 
ward  soar. 

Now  Mr.  Fluker  had  many  and  many  a  time  acknowl 
edged  that  he  had  ambition;  so  one  night  He  said  to  his 
wife: 

"You  see  how  it  is  here,  Nervy.  Farmin'  somehow  dont 
suit  my  talons.  I  need  to  be  flung  more  'mong  people  to 
fetch  out  what's  in  me.  Then  thar's  Marann,  which  is  git- 
tin'  to  be  nigh  on  to  a  growd-up  woman;  an'  the  child  need 
the  s'iety  which  you  'bleeged  to  acknowledge  is  sca'ce  about 
here,  six  mile  from  town.  Your  brer  Sam  can  stay  here  an' 
raise  butter,  chickens,  eggs,  pigs,  an' — an' — an'  so  forth. 
Matt  Pike  say  he  jes'  know  they's  money  in  it,  an'  special 
with  a  housekeeper  keerful  an'  equinomical  like  you." 

It  is  always  curious  the  extent  of  influence  that  some 
men  have  upon  wives  who  are  their  superiors.  Mrs.  Fluker, 
in  spite  of  accidents,  had  ever  set  upon  her  husband  a  value 
that  was  not  recognized  outside  of  his  family.  In  this  re 
spect  there  seems  a  surprising  compensation  in  human  life. 
But  this  remark  I  make  only  in  passing.  Mrs.  Fluker,  ad 
mitting  in  her  heart  that  farming  was  not  her  husband's 
forte,  hoped,  like  a  true  wife,  that  it  might  be  found  in  the 
new  field  to  which  he  aspired.  Besides,  she  did  not  forget 
that  her  brother  Sam  had  said  to  her  several  times  privately 
that  if  his  brer  Pink  wouldn't  have  so  many  notions  and 
would  let  him  alone  in  his  management,  they  would  all  do 
better.  She  reflected  for  a  day  or  two,  and  then  said: 

"Maybe  it's  best,  Mr.  Fluker.  I'm  willin'  to  try  it  for 
a  year,  anyhow.  We  can't  lose  much  by  that.  As  for  Matt 
Pike,  I  hain't  the  confidence  in  him  you  has.  Still,  he  bein' 
a  boarder  and  deputy  sheriff,  he  might  accidentally  do  us 
some  good.  I'll  try  it  for  a  year  providin'  you'll  fetch  me 
the  money  as  it's  paid  in,  for  you  know  I  know  how  to 
manage  that  better 'n  you  do,  and  you  know  I'll  try  to  man 
age  it  and  all  the  rest  of  the  business  for  the  best." 

To  this  provision  Mr.  Fluker  gave  consent,  qualified  by 
Hie  claim  that  he  was  to  retain  a  small  margin  for  indis 
pensable  personal  exigencies.  For  he  contended,  perhaps 


HOTEL  EXPERIENCE  OF  MR.  PINK  FLUKER    131 

with  justice,  that  no  man  in  the  responsible  position  he 
was  about  to  take  ought  to  be  expected  to  go  about,  or  sit 
about,  or  even  lounge  about,  without  even  a  continental 
red  in  his  pocket. 

The  new  house — I  say  new  because  tongue  could  not 
tell  the  amount  of  scouring,  scalding,  and  whitewashing  that 
that  excellent  housekeeper  had  done  before  a  single  stick 
of  her  furniture  went  into  it — the  new  house,  I  repeat, 
opened  with  six  eating  boarders  at  ten  dollars  a  month 
apiece,  and  two  eating  and  sleeping  at  eleven,  besides  Mr. 
Pike,  who  made  a  special  contract.  Transient  custom  was 
hoped  to  hold  its  own,  and  that  of  the  county  people  under 
the  deputy's  patronage  and  influence  to  be  considerably 
enlarged. 

In  words  and  other  encouragement  Mr.  Pike  was  pro 
nounced.  He  could  commend  honestly,  and  he  did  so  cor 
dially. 

"The  thing  to  do,  Pink,  is  to  have  your  prices  reg'lar, 
and  make  people  pay  up  reg'lar.  Ten  dollars  for  eatin', 
jes'  so;  eleb'n  for  eatin'  an'  sleepin';  half  a  dollar  for  dinner, 
jes'  so;  quarter  apiece  for  breakfast,  supper,  and  bed,  is 
what  I  call  reasonable  bo'd.  As  for  me,  I  sca'cely  know 
how  to  rig'late,  because,  you  know,  I'm  a'  officer  now,  an' 
in  course  I  natchel  has  to  be  away  sometimes  an'  on  ex 
penses  at  'tother  places,  an'  it  seem  like  some  'lowance  ought 
by  good  rights  to  be  made  for  that;  don't  you  think  so?" 

"Why,  matter  o'  course,  Matt;  what  you  think?  I  ain't 
so  powerful  good  at  riggers.  Nervy  is.  S'posen  you  speak 
to  her  'bout  it." 

"Oh,  that's  perfec'  unuseless,  Pink.  I'm  a'  officer  o'  the 
law,  Pink,  an'  the  law  consider  women — well,  I  may  say 
the  law,  she  deal  'ith  men,  not  women,  an'  she  expect  her 
officers  to  understan'  figgers,  an'  if  I  hadn't  o'  understood 
figgers  Mr.  Sanks  wouldn't  or  darsnt'  to  'p'int  me  his  dep'ty. 
Me  'n'  you  can  fix  them  terms.  Now  see  here,  reg'lar  bo'd — 
eatin'  bo'd,  I  mean — is  ten  dollars,  an'  sleepin'  and  singuil 
meals  is  'cordin'  to  the  figgers  you've  sot  for  'em.  Ain't 
that  so?  Jes'  so.  Now,  Pink,  you  an'  me'll  keep  a  runnin' 
account,  you  a-chargin'  for  reg'lar  bo'd,  an'  I  a'lowin'  to 


132    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

myself  credics  for  my  absentees,  accordin'  to  transion  cus 
tomers  an'  singuil  mealers  an'  sleepers.  Is  that  fa'r,  er  is 
it  not  fa'r?" 

Mr.  Fluker  turned  his  head,  and  after  making  or  think 
ing  he  had  made  a  calculation,  answered: 

"That's— that  seem  fa'r,  Matt." 

"Cert'nly  'tis,  Pink;  I  knowed  you'd  say  so,  an'  you  know 
I'd  never  wish  to  be  nothin'  but  fa'r  'ith  people  I  like,  like  I 
do  you  an'  your  wife.  Let  that  be  the  understandin',  then, 
betwix'  us.  An'  Pink,  let  the  understandin'  be  jes'  betwix' 
us,  for  I've  saw  enough  o'  this  world  to  find  out  that  a  man 
never  makes  nothin'  by  makin'  a  blowin'  horn  o'  his  busi 
ness.  You  make  the  t'others  pay  up  spuntial,  monthly. 
You  'n'  me  can  settle  whensomever  it's  convenant,  say  three 
months  from  to-day.  In  course  I  shall  talk  up  for  the 
house  whensomever  and  wharsomever  I  go  or  stay.  You 
know  that.  An'  as  for  my  bed,"  said  Mr.  Pike  finally, 
"whensomever  I  ain't  here  by  bed-time,  you  welcome  to  put 
any  transion  person  in  it,  an'  also  an'  likewise,  when  tran 
sion  custom  is  pressin',  and  you  cramped  for  beddin',  I'm 
willin'  to  give  it  up  for  the  time  bein';  an'  rather'n  you 
should  be  cramped  too  bad,  I'll  take  my  chances  somewhars 
else,  even  if  I  has  to  take  a  pallet  at  the  head  o'  the  sta'r- 
steps." 

"Nervy,"  said  Mr.  Fluker  to  his  wife  afterwards,  "Matt 
Pike's  a  sensibler  an'  a  friendlier  an'  a  'commodatiner  fel- 
ler'n  I  thought." 

Then,  without  giving  details  of  the  contract,  he  men 
tioned  merely  the  willingness  of  their  boarder  to  resign  his 
bed  on  occasions  of  pressing  emergency. 

"He's  talked  mighty  fine  to  me  and  Marann,"  answered 
Mrs.  Fluker.  "We'll  see  how  he  holds  out.  One  thing  I 
do  not  like  of  his  doin',  an'  that's  the  talkin'  *bout  Sim 
Marchman  to  Marann,  an'  makin'  game  o'  his  country  ways, 
as  he  call  'em.  Sech  as  that  ain't  right." 

It  may  be  as  well  to  explain  just  here  that  Simeon  March 
man,  the  person  just  named  by  Mrs.  Fluker,  a  stout,  in 
dustrious  young  farmer,  residing  with  his  parents  in  the 
country  near  by  where  the  Flukers  had  dwelt  before  removing 


HOTEL  EXPERIENCE  OF  MR.  PINK  FLUKER    133 

to  town,  had  been  eying  Marann  for  a  year  or  two, 
and  waiting  upon  her  fast-ripening  womanhood  with  inten 
tions  that  he  believed  to  be  hidden  in  his  own  breast, 
though  he  had  taken  less  pains  to  conceal  them  from  Marann 
than  from  the  rest  of  his  acquaintance.  Not  that  he  had 

ever  told  her  of  them  in  so  many  words,  but Oh,  I 

need  not  stop  here  hi  the  midst  of  this  narration  to  ex 
plain  how  such  intentions  become  known,  or  at  least  strongly 
suspected  by  girls,  even  those  less  bright  than  Marann 
Fluker.  Simeon  had  not  cordially  indorsed  the  movement 
into  town,  though,  of  course,  knowing  it  was  none  of  his 
business,  he  had  never  so  much  as  hinted  opposition.  I 
would  not  be  surprised,  also,  if  he  reflected  that  there  might 
be  some  selfishness  in  his  hostility,  or  at  least  that  it  was 
heightened  by  apprehensions  personal  to  himself. 

Considering  the  want  of  experience  in  the  new  tenants, 
matters  went  on  remarkably  well.  Mrs.  Fluker,  accustomed 
to  rise  from  her  couch  long  before  the  lark,  managed  to  the 
satisfaction  of  all, — regular  boarders,  single-meal  takers,  and 
transient  people.  Marann  went  to  the  village  school,  her 
mother  dressing  her,  though  with  prudent  economy,  a? 
neatly  and  almost  as  tastefully  as  any  of  her  schoolmates; 
while,  as  to  study,  deportment,  and  general  progress,  there 
was  not  a  girl  in  the  whole  school  to  beat  her,  I  don't  care 
who  she  was. 

II 

During  a  not  inconsiderable  period  Mr.  Fluker  indulged 
the  honorable  conviction  that  at  last  he  had  found  the  vein 
in  which  his  best  talents  lay,  and  he  was  happy  in  fore 
sight  of  the  prosperity  and  felicity  which  that  discovery 
promised  to  himself  and  his  family.  His  native  activity 
found  many  more  objects  for  its  exertion  than  before.  He 
rode  out  to  the  farm,  not  often,  but  sometimes,  as  a  matter 
of  duty,  and  was  forced  to  acknowledge  that  Sam  was  man 
aging  better  than  could  have  been  expected  in  the  absence 
of  his  own  continuous  guidance.  In  town  he  walked  about 
the  hotel,  entertained  the  guests,  carved  at  the  meals,  hovered 
about  the  stores,  the  doctors'  offices,  the  wagon  and  black- 


i34    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

smith  shops,  discussed  mercantile,  medical,  mechanical 
questions  with  specialists  in  all  these  departments,  throwing 
into  them  all  more  and  more  of  politics  as  the  intimacy  be 
tween  him  and  his  patron  and  chief  boarder  increased. 

Now  as  to  that  patron  and  chief  boarder.  The  need  of 
extending  his  acquaintance  seemed  to  press  upon  Mr.  Pike 
with  ever-increasing  weight.  He  was  here  and  there,  all 
over  the  county;  at  the  county-seat,  at  the  county  villages, 
at  justices'  courts,  at  executors'  and  administrators'  sales,  at 
quarterly  and  protracted  religious  meetings,  at  barbecues  of 
every  dimension,  on  hunting  excursions  and  fishing  frolics, 
at  social  parties  in  all  neighborhoods.  It  got  to  be  said 
of  Mr.  Pike  that  a  freer  acceptor  of  hospitable  invitations, 
or  a  better  appreciator  of  hospitable  intentions,  was  not  and 
needed  not  to  be  found  possibly  in  the  whole  state.  Nor 
was  this  admirable  deportment  confined  to  the  county  in 
which  he  held  so  high  official  position.  He  attended,  among 
other  occasions  less  public,  the  spring  sessions  of  the 
supreme  and  county  courts  in  the  four  adjoining  counties: 
the  guest  of  acquaintance  old  and  new  over  there.  When 
starting  upon  such  travels,  he  would  sometimes  breakfast 
with  his  traveling  companion  in  the  village,  and,  if  some 
what  belated  in  the  return,  sup  with  him  also. 

Yet,  when  at  Flukers',  no  man  could  have  been  a  more 
cheerful  and  otherwise  satisfactory  boarder  than  Mr.  Matt 
Pike.  He  praised  every  dish  set  before  him,  bragged  to 
their  very  faces  of  his  host  and  hostess,  and  in  spite  of  his 
absences  was  the  oftenest  to  sit  and  chat  with  Marann  when 
her  mother  would  let  her  go  into  the  parlor.  Here  and 
everywhere  about  the  house,  in  the  dining-room,  in  the 
passage,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  he  would  joke  with  Marann 
about  her  country  beau,  as  he  styled  poor  Sim  Marchman, 
and  he  would  talk  as  though  he  was  rather  ashamed  of 
Sim,  and  wanted  Marann  to  string  her  bow  for  higher 
game. 

Brer  Sam  did  manage  well,  not  only  the  fields,  but  the 
yard.  Every  Saturday  of  the  world  he  sent  in  something 
or  other  to  his  sister.  I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  tell 
it  or  not,  but  for  the  sake  of  what  is  due  to  pure  veracity  I 


HOTEL  EXPERIENCE  OF  MR.  PINK  FLUKER    135 

will.  On  as  many  as  three  different  occasions  Sim  March- 
man,  as  if  he  had  lost  all  self-respect,  or  had  not  a  particle 
of  tact,  brought  in  himself,  instead  of  sending  by  a  negro, 
a  bucket  of  butter  and  a  coop  of  spring  chickens  as  a  free 
gift  to  Mrs.  Fluker.  I  do  think,  on  my  soul,  that  Mr.  Matt 
Pike  was  much  amused  by  such  degradation — however,  he 
must  say  that  they  were  all  first-rate.  As  for  Marann,  she 
was  very  sorry  for  Sim,  and  wished  he  had  not  brought 
these  good  things  at  all. 

Nobody  knew  how  it  came  about;  but  when  the  Flukers 
had  been  in  town  somewhere  between  two  and  three  months, 
Sim  Marchman,  who  (to  use  his  own  words)  had  never 
bothered  her  a  great  deal  with  his  visits,  began  to  suspect 
that  what  few  he  made  were  received  by  Marann  lately 
with  less  cordiality  than  before;  and  so  one  day,  knowing 
no  better,  in  his  awkward,  straightforward  country  man 
ners,  he  wanted  to  know  the  reason  why.  Then  Marann 
grew  distant,  and  asked  Sim  the  following  question: 

"You  know  where  Mr.  Pike's  gone,  Mr.  Marchman?" 

Now  the  fact  was,  and  she  knew  it,  that  Marann  Fluker 
had  never  before,  not  since  she  was  born,  addressed  that 
boy  as  Mister, 

The  visitor's  face  reddened  and  reddened. 

"No,"  he  faltered  in  answer;  "no — no — ma'am,  I  should 
say.  I — I  don't  know  where  Mr.  Pike's  gone." 

Then  he  looked  around  for  his  hat,  discovered  it  in  time, 
took  it  into  his  hands,  turned  it  around  two  or  three  times, 
then,  bidding  good-bye  without  shaking  hands,  took  him 
self  off. 

Mrs.  Fluker  liked  all  the  Marchmans,  and  she  was 
troubled  somewhat  when  she  heard  of  the  quickness  and 
manner  of  Sim's  departure;  for  he  had  been  fully  expected 
by  her  to  stay  to  dinner. 

"Say  he  didn't  even  shake  hands,  Marann?  What  for? 
What  you  do  to  him?" 

"Not  one  blessed  thing,  ma;  only  he  wanted  to  know 
why  I  wasn't  gladder  to  see  him."  Then  Marann  looked 
indignant. 

"Say  them  words,  Marann?" 


136    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"No,  but  he  hinted  'em." 

"What  did  you  say  then?" 

"I  just  asked,  a-meaning  nothing  in  the  wide  world,  ma 
—I  asked  him  if  he  knew  where  Mr.  Pike  had  gone." 

"And  that  were  answer  enough  to  hurt  his  feelin's.  What 
you  want  to  know  where  Matt  Pike's  gone  for,  Marann?" 

"I  didn't  care  about  knowing,  ma,  but  I  didn't  like  the 
way  Sim  talked." 

"Look  here,  Marann.  Look  straight  at  me.  You'll  be 
mighty  fur  off  your  feet  if  you  let  Matt  Pike  put  things  in 
your  head  that  hain't  no  business  a-bein'  there,  and  special 
if  you  find  yourself  a-wantin'  to  know  where  he's  a-peram- 
bulatin'  in  his  everlastin'  meanderin's.  Not  a  cent  has  he 
paid  for  his  board,  and  which  your  pa  say  he  have  a'  un- 
derstandin'  with  him  about  allowin'  for  his  absentees,  which 
is  all  right  enough,  but  which  it's  now  goin'  on  to  three 
mont's,  and  what  is  comin'  to  us  I  need  and  I  want.  He 
ought,  your  pa  ought  to  let  me  bargain  with  Matt  Pike, 
because  he  know  he  don't  understan'  figgers  like  Matt  Pike. 
He  don't  know  exactly  what  the  bargain  were;  for  I've  asked 
him,  and  he  always  begins  with  a  multiplyin'  of  words  and 
never  answers  me." 

On  his  next  return  from  his  travels  Mr.  Pike  noticed  a 
coldness  in  Mrs.  Fluker's  manner,  and  this  enhanced  his 
praise  of  the  house.  The  last  week  of  the  third  month 
came.  Mr.  Pike  was  often  noticed,  before  and  after  meals, 
standing  at  the  desk  in  the  hotel  office  (called  in  those 
times  the  bar-room)  engaged  in  making  calculations.  The 
day  before  the  contract  expired  Mrs.  Fluker,  who  had  not 
indulged  herself  with  a  single  holiday  since  they  had  been 
in  town,  left  Marann  in  charge  of  the  house,  and  rode  forth, 
spending  part  of  the  day  with  Mrs.  Marchman,  Sim's  mother. 
All  were  glad  to  see  her,  of  course,  and  she  returned  smartly 
freshened  by  the  visit.  That  night  she  had  a  talk  with 
Marann,  and  oh,  how  Marann  did  cry! 

The  very  last  day  came.  Like  insurance  policies,  the  con 
tract  was  to  expire  at  a  certain  hour.  Sim  Marchman  came 
just  before  dinner,  to  which  he  was  sent  for  by  Mrs.  Flu 
ker,  who  had  seen  him  as  he  rode  into  town. 


HOTEL  EXPERIENCE  OF  MR.  PINK  FLUKER    137 

"Hello,  Sim,"  said  Mr.  Pike  as  he  took  his  seat  opposite 
him.  "You  here?  What's  the  news  in  the  country?  How's 
your  health?  How's  crops?" 

"Jest  mod'rate,  Mr.  Pike.  Got  little  business  with  you 
after  dinner,  ef  you  can  spare  time." 

"All  right.  Got  a  little  matter  with  Pink  here  first. 
'Twon't  take  long.  See  you  arfter  amejiant,  Sim." 

Never  had  the  deputy  been  more  gracious  and  witty.  He 
talked  and  talked,  outtalking  even  Mr.  Fluker;  he  was  the 
only  man  in  town  who  could  do  that.  He  winked  at  Marann 
as  he  put  questions  to  Sim,  some  of  the  words  employed  in 
which  Sim  had  never  heard  before.  Yet  Sim  held  up  as 
well  as  he  could,  and  after  dinner  followed  Marann  with 
some  little  dignity  into  the  parlor.  They  had  not  been 
there  more  than  ten  minutes  when  Mrs.  Fluker  was  heard 
to  walk  rapidly  along  the  passage  leading  from  the  dining- 
room,  to  enter  her  own  chamber  for  only  a  moment,  then  to 
come  out  and  rush  to  the  parlor  door  with  the  gig-whip  m 
her  hand.  Such  uncommon  conduct  in  a  woman  like  Mrs, 
Pink  Fluker  of  course  needs  explanation. 

When  all  the  other  boarders  had  left  the  house,  the  deputy 
and  Mr.  Fluker  having  repaired  to  the  bar-room,  the  former 
said: 

"Now,  Pink,  for  our  settlement,  as  you  say  your  wife 
think  we  better  have  one.  I'd  'a'  been  willin'  to  let  accounts 
keep  on  a-runnin',  knowin'  what  a  straightforrards  sort  o' 
man  you  was.  Your  count,  ef  I  ain't  mistakened,  is  jes' 
thirty-three  dollars,  even  money.  Is  that  so,  or  is  it 
not?" 

"That's  it,  to  a  dollar,  Matt.  Three  times  eleben  make 
thirty-three,  don't  it?" 

"It  do,  Pink,  or  eleben  times  three,  jes'  which  you  please. 
Now  here's  my  count,  on  which  you'll  see,  Pink,  that  not 
nary  cent  have  I  charged  for  infloonce.  I  has  infloonced  a 
consider'ble  custom  to  this  house,  as  you  know,  bo'din'  and 
transion.  But  I  done  that  out  o'  my  respects  of  you  an' 
Missis  Fluker,  an'  your  keepin'  of  a  fa'r — I'll  say,  as  I've 
said  freckwent,  a  very  fa'r  house.  I  let  them  infloonces  go 
to  friendship,  ef  you'll  take  it  so.  Will  you,  Pink  Fluker?" 


138    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"Cert'nly,  Matt,  an'  I'm  a  thousand  times  obieeged  to 
you,  an' " 

"Say  no  more,  Pink,  on  that  p'int  o'  view.  Ef  I  like  a 
man,  I  know  how  to  treat  him.  Now  as  to  the  p'ints  o' 
absentees,  my  business  as  dep'ty  sheriff  has  took  me  away 
from  this  inconsider'ble  town  freckwent,  hain't  it?" 

"It  have,  Matt,  er  somethin'  else,  more'n  I  were  a  ex- 
pectin',  an' " 

"Jes'  so.  But  a  public  officer,  Pink,  when  jooty  call 
on  him  to  go,  he  got  to  go;  in  fack  he  got  to  goth,  as  the 
Scripture  say,  ain't  that  so?" 

"I  s'pose  so,  Matt,  by  good  rights,  a— a  official  speakin'." 

Mr.  Fluker  felt  that  he  was  becoming  a  little  confused. 

"Jes'  so.  Now,  Pink,  I  were  to  have  credics  for  my  ab- 
oentees  'cordin'  to  transion  an'  single-meal  bo'ders  an'  sleep 
ers;  ain't  that  so?" 

"I — I — somethin'  o'  that  sort,  Matt,"  he  answered 
vaguely. 

"Jes'  so.  Now  look  here,"  drawing  from  his  pocket  a 
paper.  "Itom  one.  Twenty-eight  dinners  at  half  a  dollar 
makes  fourteen  dollars,  don't  it?  Jes'  so.  Twenty-five 
breakfasts  at  a  quarter  makes  six  an'  a  quarter,  which 
make  dinners  an'  breakfasts  twenty  an'  a  quarter.  Foller 
me  up,  as  I  go  up,  Pink.  Twenty-five  suppers  at  a  quarter 
makes  six  an'  a  quarter,  an*  which  them  added  to  the  twenty 
an'  a  quarter  makes  them  twenty-six  an'  a  half.  Foller, 
Pink,  an'  if  you  ketch  me  in  any  mistakes  in  the  kyarin'  an' 
addin',  p'int  it  out.  Twenty-two  an'  a  half  beds— an'  I  say 
half,  Pink,  because  you  'member  one  night  when  them 
A'gusty  lawyers  got  here  'bout  midnight  on  their  way  to 
co't,  rather'n  have  you  too  bad  cramped,  I  ris  to  make  way 
for  two  of  'em;  yit  as  I  had  one  good  nap,  I  didn't  think  I 
ought  to  put  that  down  but  for  half.  Them  makes  five 
dollars  half  an'  seb'n  pence,  an'  which  kyar'd  on  to  the 
t'other  twenty-six  an'  a  half,  fetches  the  whole  cabool  to 
Jes'  thirty- two  dollars  an'  seb'n  pence.  But  I  made  up  my 
mind  I'd  fling  out  that  seb'n  pence,  an'  jes'  call  it  a  dollar 
even  money,  an'  which  here's  the  solid  silver." 

In  spite  of  the  rapidity  with  which  this  enumeration  of 


HOTEL  EXPERIENCE  OF  MR.  PINK  FLUKER    139 

counter-charges  was  made,  Mr.  Fluker  commenced  perspir 
ing  at  the  first  item,  and  when  the  balance  was  announced 
his  face  was  covered  with  huge  drops. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Mrs.  Fluker,  who,  well  know 
ing  her  husband's  unfamiliarity  with  complicated  accounts, 
had  felt  her  duty  to  be  listening  near  the  bar-room  door, 
left,  and  quickly  afterwards  appeared  before  Marann  and 
Sim  as  I  have  represented. 

"You  think  Matt  Pike  ain't  tryin'  to  settle  with  your 
pa  with  a  dollar?  I'm  goin'  to  make  him  keep  his  dollar, 
an'  I'm  goin'  to  give  him  somethin'  to  go  'long  with  it." 

"The  good  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us! "  exclaimed  Marann, 
springing  up  and  catching  hold  of  her  mother's  skirts,  as  she 
began  her  advance  towards  the  bar-room.  "Oh,  ma!  for 
the  Lord's  sake! — Sim,  Sim,  Sim,  if  you  care  anything 
for  me  in  this  wide  world,  don't  let  ma  go  into  that 
room ! " 

"Missis  Fluker,"  said  Sim,  rising  instantly,  "wait  jest 
two  minutes  till  I  see  Mr.  Pike  on  some  pressin'  business; 
I  won't  keep  you  over  two  minutes  a-waitin'." 

He  took  her,  set  her  down  in  a  chair  trembling,  looked 
at  her  a  moment  as  she  began  to  weep,  then,  going  out 
and  closing  the  door,  strode  rapidly  to  the  bar-room. 

"Let  me  help  you  settle  your  board-bill,  Mr.  Pike,  by 
payin'  you  a  little  one  I  owe  you." 

Doubling  his  fist,  he  struck  out  with  a  blow  that  felled 
the  deputy  to  the  floor.  Then  catching  him  by  his  heels, 
he  dragged  him  out  of  the  house  into  the  street.  Lifting 
his  foot  above  his  face,  he  said: 

"You  stir  till  I  tell  you,  an'  I'll  stomp  your  nose  down 
even  with  the  balance  of  your  mean  face.  'Tain't  exactly 
my  business  how  you  cheated  Mr.  Fluker,  though,  'pon  my 
soul,  I  never  knowed  a  trifliner,  lowdowner  trick.  But  / 
owed  you  myself  for  your  talkin'  'bout  and  your  lyin'  *bout 
me,  and  now  I've  paid  you;  an'  ef  you  only  knowed  it,  I've 
saved  you  from  a  gig-whippin'.  Now  you  may  git  up." 

"Here's  his  dollar,  Sim,"  said  Mr.  Fluker,  throwing  it 
out  of  the  window.  "Nervy  say  make  him  take  it." 

The  vanquished,  not  daring  to  refuse,  pocketed  the  coin, 


140    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

and  slunk  away  amid  the  jeers  of  a  score  of  villagers  who 
had  been  drawn  to  the  scene. 

In  all  human  probability  the  late  omission  of  the  shaking 
tf  Sim's  and  Marann's  hands  was  compensated  at  their 
parting  that  afternoon.  I  am  more  confident  on  this  point 
Because  at  the  end  of  the  year  those  hands  were  joined  in 
separably  by  the  preacher.  But  this  was  when  they  had 
all  gone  back  to  their  old  home;  for  if  Mr.  Fluker  did  not 
become  fully  convinced  that  his  mathematical  education  was 
not  advanced  quite  enough  for  all  the  exigencies  of  hotel- 
keeping,  his  wife  declared  that  she  had  had  enough  of  it, 
and  that  she  and  Marann  were  going  home.  Mr.  Fluker 
may  be  said,  therefore,  to  have  followed,  rather  than  led, 
his  family  on  the  return. 

As  for  the  deputy,  finding  that  if  he  did  not  leave  it 
voluntarily  he  would  be  drummed  out  of  the  village,  he  de 
parted,  whither  I  do  not  remember  if  anybody  ever  knew. 


THE  NICE  PEOPLE 

BY  HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER  (1855-1896) 


«^T^HEY  certainly  are  nice  people,"  I  assented  to  my 

wife's  observation,  using  the  colloquial  phrase  with  a 

consciousness  that  it  was  anything  but  "nice"  Eng 

lish,  "and  I'll  bet  that  their  three  children  are  better  brought 

up  than  most  of  -  " 

"Two  children,"  corrected  my  wife. 

"Three,  he  told  me." 

"My  dear,  she  said  there  were  two" 

"He  said  three." 

"You've  simply  forgotten.  I'm  sure  she  told  me  they 
had  only  two  —  a  boy  and  a  girl." 

"Well,  I  didn't  enter  into  particulars." 

"No,  dear,  and  you  couldn't  have  understood  him.  Two 
children." 

"All  right,"  I  said;  but  I  did  not  think  it  was  all  right. 
As  a  near-sighted  man  learns  by  enforced  observation  to 
recognize  persons  at  a  distance  when  the  face  is  not  visible 
to  the  normal  eye,  so  the  man  with  a  bad  memory  learns, 
almost  unconsciously,  to  listen  carefully  and  report  accu 
rately.  My  memory  is  bad;  but  I  had  not  had  time  to 
forget  that  Mr.  Brewster  Brede  had  told  me  that  afternoon 
that  he  had  three  children,  at  present  left  in  the  care  of 
his  mother-in-law,  while  he  and  Mrs.  Brede  took  their  sum 
mer  vacation. 

"Two  children,"  repeated  my  wife;  "and  they  are  staying 
with  his  aunt  Jenny." 


From  Puck,  July  30,  1890.  Republished  in  the  volume,  Short 
Sixes:  Stories  to  Be  Read  While  the  Candle  Burns  (1891),  by 
Henry  Cuyler  Bunner;  copyright,  1890,  by  Alice  Larned  Bunner; 
reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Charles  Scribner'a 
Sons. 

141 


142    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"He  told  me  with  his  mother-in-law,"  I  put  in.  My 
wife  looked  at  me  with  a  serious  expression.  Men  may  not 
remember  much  of  what  they  are  told  about  children;  but 
any  man  knows  the  difference  between  an  aunt  and  a  mother- 
in-law. 

"But  don't  you  think  they're  nice  people?"  asked  my 
wife. 

"Oh,  certainly,"  I  replied.  "Only  they  seem  to  be  a 
little  mixed  up  about  their  children." 

"That  isn't  a  nice  thing  to  say,"  returned  my  wife.     I 

could  not  deny  it. 

****** 

And  yet,  the  next  morning,  when  the  Bredes  came  down 
and  seated  themselves  opposite  us  at  table,  beaming  and 
smiling  in  their  natural,  pleasant,  well-bred  fashion,  I  knew, 
to  a  social  certainty,  that  they  were  "nice"  people.  He  was 
a  fine-looking  fellow  in  his  neat  tennis-flannels,  slim,  grace 
ful,  twenty-eight  or  thirty  years  old,  with  a  Frenchy  pointed 
beard.  She  was  "nice"  in  all  her  pretty  clothes,  and  she 
herself  was  pretty  with  that  type  of  prettiness  which  out 
wears  most  other  types — the  prettiness  that  lies  in  a  rounded 
figure,  a  dusky  skin,  plump,  rosy  cheeks,  white  teeth  and 
black  eyes.  She  might  have  been  twenty-five;  you  guessed 
that  she  was  prettier  than  she  was  at  twenty,  and  that  she 
would  be  prettier  still  at  forty. 

And  nice  people  were  all  we  wanted  to  make  us  happy 
in  Mr.  Jacobus's  summer  boarding-house  on  top  of  Orange 
Mountain.  For  a  week  we  had  come  down  to  breakfast  each 
morning,  wondering  why  we  wasted  the  precious  days  of 
idleness  with  the  company  gathered  around  the  Jacobus 
board.  What  joy  of  human  companionship  was  to  be  had 
out  of  Mrs.  Tabb  and  Miss  Hoogencamp,  the  two  middle- 
aged  gossips  from  Scranton,  Pa. — out  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Biggie,  an  indurated  head-bookkeeper  and  his  prim  and  cen 
sorious  wife — out  of  old  Major  Halkit,  a  retired  business 
man,  who,  having  once  sold  a  few  shares  on  commission, 
wrote  for  circulars  of  every  stock  company  that  was  started, 
and  tried  to  induce  every  one  to  invest  who  would  listen 
to  him?  We  looked  around  at  those  dull  faces,  the  truthful 


THE  NICE  PEOPLE  143 

indices  of  mean  and  barren  minds,  and  decided  that  we 
would  leave  that  morning.  Then  we  ate  Mrs.  Jacobus's 
biscuit,  light  as  Aurora's  cloudlets,  drank  her  honest  coffee, 
inhaled  'the  perfume  of  the  late  azaleas  with  which  she 
decked  her  table,  and  decided  to  postpone  our  departure 
one  more  day.  And  then  we  wandered  out  to  take  our 
morning  glance  at  what  we  called  "our  view";  and  it  seemed 
to  us  as  if  Tabb  and  Hoogencamp  and  Halkit  and  the  Big- 
gleses  could  not  drive  us  away  in  a  year. 

I  was  not  surprised  -when,  after  breakfast,  my  wife  in 
vited  the  Bredes  to  walk  with  us  to  "our  view."  The 
Hoogencamp-Biggle-Tabb-Halkit  contingent  never  stirred 
off  Jacobus's  veranda;  but  we  'both  felt  that  the  Bredes 
would  not  profane  that  sacred  scene.  We  strolled  slowly 
across  the  fields,  passed  through  the  little  belt  of  woods 
and,  as  I  heard  Mrs.  Brede's  little  cry  of  startled  rapture, 
I  motioned  to  Brede  to  look  up. 

"By  Jove!"  he  cried,  "heavenly  1" 

We  looked  off  from  the  brow  of  the  mountain  over  fif 
teen  miles  of  billowing  green,  to  where,  far  across  a  far 
stretch  of  pale  blue  lay  a  dim  purple  line  that  we  knew  was 
Staten  Island.  Towns  and  villages  lay  before  us  and  under 
us;  there  were  ridges  and  hills,  uplands  and  lowlands, 
woods  and  plains,  all  massed  and  mingled  in  that  great 
silent  sea  of  sunlit  green.  For  silent  it  was  to  us,  standing 
in  the  silence  of  a  high  place — silent  with  a  Sunday  stillness 
that  made  us  listen,  without  taking  thought,  for  the  sound 
of  bells  coming  up  from  the  spires  that  rose  above  the  tree- 
tops — the  tree-tops  that  lay  as  far  beneath  us  as  the  light 
clouds  were  above  us  that  dropped  great  shadows  upon  our 
heads  and  faint  specks  of  shade  upon  the  broad  sweep  of 
land  at  the  mountain's  foot. 

"And  so  that  is  your  view?"  asked  Mrs.  Brede,  after  a 
moment;  "you  are  very  generous  to  make  it  ours,  too." 

Then  we  lay  down  on  the  grass,  and  Brede  began  to  talk, 
in  a  gentle  voice,  as  if  he  felt  the  influence  of  the  place. 
He  had  paddled  a  canoe,  in  his  earlier  days,  he  said,  and 
he  knew  every  river  and  -.reek  in  that  vast  stretch  of  land 
scape.  He  found  his  landmarks,  and  pointed  out  to  us 


144    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

where  the  Passaic  and  the  Hackensack  flowed,  invisible  to 
as,  hidden  behind  great  ridges  that  in  our  sight  were  but 
•combings  of  the  green  waves  upon  which  we  looked  down. 
And  yet,  on  the  further  side  of  those  broad  ridges  and  rises 
were  scores  of  villages — a  little  world  of  country  life,  lying 
unseen  under  our  eyes. 

"A  good  deal  like  looking  at  humanity,"  he  said;  "there 
is  such  a  thing  as  getting  so  far  above  our  fellow  men  that 
we  see  only  one  side  of  them." 

Ah,  how  much  better  was  this  sort  of  talk  than  the  chat 
ter  and  gossip  of  the  Tabb  and  the  Hoogencamp — than  the 
Major's  dissertations  upon  his  everlasting  circulars!  My 
wife  and  I  exchanged  glances. 

"Now,  when  I  went  up  the  Matterhorn "  Mr.  Brede 
began. 

"Why,  dear,"  interrupted  his  wife,  "I  didn't  know  you 
ever  went  up  the  Matterhorn." 

"It — it  was  five  years  ago,"  said  Mr.  Brede,  hurriedly. 
"I — I  didn't  tell  you — when  I  was  on  the  other  side,  you 
know — it  was  rather  dangerous — well,  as  I  was  saying — it 
looked — oh,  it  didn't  look  at  all  like  this." 

A  cloud  floated  overhead,  throwing  its  great  shadow  over 
the  field  where  we  lay.  The  shadow  passed  over  the  moun 
tain's  brow  and  reappeared  far  below,  a  rapidly  decreasing 
blot,  flying  eastward  over  the  golden  green.  My  wife  and 
I  exchanged  glances  once  more. 

Somehow,  the  shadow  lingered  over  us  all.  As  we  went 
home,  the  Bredes  went  side  by  side  along  the  narrow  path, 
and  my  wife  and  I  walked  together. 

"Should  you  think"  she  asked  me,  "that  a  man  would 
climb  the  Matterhorn  the  very  first  year  he  was  married?" 

"I  don't  know,  my  dear,"  I  answered,  evasively;  "this 
isn't  the  first  year  I  have  been  married,  not  by  a  good  many, 
md  I  wouldn't  climb  it — for  a  farm." 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  she  said. 

I  did. 

******* 

When  we  reached  the  boarding-house,  Mr.  Jacobus  took 
me  aside. 


THE  NICE   PEOPLE  145 

"You  know,"  he  began  his  discourse,  "my  wife  she  usef 
to  live  in  N'  York!" 

I  didn't  know,  but  I  said  "Yes." 

"She  says  the  numbers  on  the  streets  runs  criss-cross-like. 
Thirty-four's  on  one  side  o'  the  street  an'  thirty-five  on 
t'other.  How's  that?" 

"That  is  the  invariable  rule,  I  believe." 

"Then — I  say — these  here  new  folk  that  you  V  your 
wife  seem  so  mighty  taken  up  with — d'ye  know  anything 
about  'em?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  the  character  of  your  boarders, 
Mr.  Jacobus,"  I  replied,  conscious  of  some  irritability.  "If 
I  choose  to  associate  with  any  of  them " 

"Jess  so — jess  so!"  broke  in  Jacobus.  "I  hain't  nothin' 
to  say  ag'inst  yer  sosherbil'ty.  But  do  ye  know  them?" 

"Why,  certainly  not,"  I  replied. 

"Well — that  was  all  I  wuz  askin'  ye.  Ye  see,  when  he 
come  here  to  take  the  rooms — you  wasn't  here  then — he 
told  my  wife  that  he  lived  at  number  thirty-four  in  his 
street.  An'  yistiddy  she  told  her  that  they  lived  at  number 
thirty-five.  He  said  he  lived  in  an  apartment-house.  Now 
there  can't  be  no  apartment-house  on  two  sides  of  the  same 
street,  kin  they?" 

"What  street  was  it?"  I  inquired,  wearily. 

"Hundred  'n'  twenty-first  street." 

"May  be,"  I  replied,  still  more  wearily.  "That's  Har 
lem.  Nobody  knows  what  people  will  do  in  Harlem." 

I  went  up  to  my  wife's  room. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  queer?"  she  asked  me. 

"I  think  I'll  have  a  talk  with  that  young  man  to-night," 
I  said,  "and  see  if  he  can  give  some  account  of  himself." 

"But,  my  dear,"  my  wife  said,  gravely,  "she  doesn't 
know  whether  they've  had  the  measles  or  not." 

"Why,  Great  Scott!"  I  exclaimed,  "they  must  have  had 
them  when  they  were  children." 

"Please  don't  be  stupid,"  said  my  wife.  "I  meant  their 
children." 

After  dinner  that  night — or  rather,  after  supper,  for  we 
had  dinner  in  the  middle  of  the  day  at  Jacobus's — I  walked 


I46    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

down  the  long  verandah  to  ask  Brede,  who  was  placidly 
•smoking  at  the  other  end,  to  accompany  me  on  a  twilight 
stroll.  Half  way  down  I  met  Major  Halkit. 

"That  friend  of  yours,"  he  said,  indicating  the  uncon 
scious  figure  at  the  further  end  of  the  house,  "  seems  to  be 
a  queer  sort  of  a  Dick.  He  told  me  that  he  was  out  of 
business,  and  just  looking  round  for  a  chance  to  invest  his 
capital.  And  I've  been  telling  him  what  an  everlasting  big 
show  he  had  to  take  stock  in  the  Capitoline  Trust  Com 
pany — starts  next  month — four  million  capital — I  told  you 
all  about  it.  'Oh,  well/  he  says,  'let's  wait  and  think  about 
it.'  'Wait!'  says  I,  'the  Capitoline  Trust  Company  won't 
wait  for  you,  my  boy.  This  is  letting  you  in  on  the  ground 
floor,'  says  I,  'and  it's  now  or  never.'  'Oh,  let  it  wait,'  says 
he.  I  don't  know  what's  in-to  the  man." 

"I  don't  know  how  well  he  knows  his  own  business, 
Major,"  I  said  as  I  started  again  for  Brede's  end  of  the 
veranda.  But  I  was  troubled  none  tihe  less.  The  Major 
could  not  have  influenced  'the  sale  of  one  share  of  stock  hi 
the  Capitoline  Company.  But  that  stock  was  a  great  in 
vestment;  a  rare  chance  for  a  purchaser  with  a  few  thou 
sand  dollars.  Perhaps  it  was  no  more  remarkable  that 
Brede  should  not  invest  than  that  I  should  not — and  yet, 
it  seemed  to  add  one  circumstance  more  to  the  other  sus 
picious  circumstances. 

****** 

When  I  went  upstairs  that  evening,  I  found  my  wife 
putting  her  hair  to  bed — I  don't  know  how  I  can  better 
describe  an  operation  familiar  to  every  married  man.  I 
waited  until  the  last  tress  was  coiled  up,  and  then  I  spoke: 

"I've  talked  with  Brede,"  I  said,  "and  I  didn't  have  to 
catechize  him.  He  seemed  to  feel  that  some  sort  of  ex 
planation  was  looked  for,  and  he  was  very  outspoken.  You 
were  right  about  the  children — that  is,  I  must  have  mis 
understood  him.  There  are  only  two.  But  the  Matterhorn 
episode  was  simple  enough.  He  didn't  realize  how  dangerous 
it  was  until  he  had  got  so  far  into  it  that  he  couldn't  back 
out;  and  he  didn't  tell  her,  because  he'd  left  her  here,  you 
see,  and  under  the  circumstances " 


THE  NICE   PEOPLE  147 

"Left  her  here!"  cried  my  wife.  "I've  been  sitting  with 
her  the  whole  afternoon,  sewing,  and  she  told  me  that  he 
left  her  at  Geneva,  and  came  back  and  took  her  to  Basle, 
and  the  baby  was  born  there — now  I'm  sure,  dear,  because 
I  asked  her." 

"Perhaps  I  was  mistaken  when  I  thought  he  said  she 
was  on  this  side  of  the  water,"  I  suggested,  with  bitter, 
biting  irony. 

"You  poor  dear,  did  I  abuse  you?"  said  my  wife.  "But, 
do  you  know,  Mrs.  Tabb  said  that  she  didn't  know  how 
many  lumps  of  sugar  he  took  in  his  coffee.  Now  that 
seems  queer,  doesn't  it?" 

It  did.  It  was  a  small  thing.  But  it  looked  queer. 
Very  queer. 

****** 

The  next  morning,  it  was  clear  that  war  was  declared 
against  the  Bredes.  They  came  down  to  breakfast  some 
what  late,  and,  as  soon  as  they  arrived,  the  Biggleses 
swooped  up  the  last  fragments  that  remained  on  their 
plates,  and  made  a  stately  march  out  of  the  dining-room. 
Then  Miss  Hoogencamp  arose  and  departed,  leaving  a  whole 
fish-ball  on  her  plate.  Even  as  Atalanta  might  have  dropped 
an  apple  behind  her  to  tempt  her  pursuer  to  check  his  speed, 
so  Miss  Hoogencamp  left  that  fish-ball  behind  her,  and  be 
tween  her  maiden  self  and  contamination. 

We  had  finished  our  breakfast,  my  wife  and  I,  before 
the  Bredes  appeared.  We  talked  it  over,  and  agreed  that 
we  were  glad  that  we  had  not  been  obliged  to  take  sides 
upon  such  insufficient  testimony. 

After  breakfast,  it  was  the  custom  of  the  male  half  of 
the  Jacobus  household  to  go  around  the  corner  of  the  build 
ing  and  smoke  their  pipes  and  cigars  where  they  would  not 
annoy  the  ladies.  We  sat  under  a  trellis  covered  with  a 
grapevine  that  had  borne  no  grapes  in  the  memory  of  man. 
This  vine,  however,  bore  leaves,  and  these,  on  that  pleas 
ant  summer  morning,  shielded  from  us  two  persons  who 
were  in  earnest  conversation  in  the  straggling,  half-dead 
flower-garden  at  the  side  of  the  house. 

"I  don't  want,"  we  heard  Mr.  Jacobus  say,  "to  enter  in 


148    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

Ho  man's  pry-vaey;  but  I  do  want  to  know  who  it  may  be, 
like,  that  I  hev  in  my  house.  Now  what  I  ask  of  you,  and 
I  don't  want  you  to  take  it  as  in  no  ways  personal,  is — hev 
you  your  merridge-license  with  you?" 

"No,"  we  heard  the  voice  of  Mr.  Brede  reply.  "Have 
you  yours?" 

I  think  it  was  a  chance  shot;  but  it  told  all  the  same. 
The  Major  (he  was  a  widower)  and  Mr.  Biggie  and  I 
looked  at  each  other;  and  Mr.  Jacobus,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  grape-trellis,  looked  at — I  don't  know  what — and  was 
as  silent  as  we  were. 

Where  is  your  marriage-license,  married  reader?  Do  you 
know?  Four  men,  not  including  Mr.  Brede,  stood  or  sat  on 
one  side  or  the  other  of  that  grape-trellis,  and  not  one  of 
them  knew  where  his  marriage-license  was.  Each  of  us  had 
bad  one — the  Major  had  had  three.  But  where  were  they? 
Where  is  yours?  Tucked  in  your  best-man's  pocket;  de 
posited  in  his  desk — or  washed  to  a  pulp  in  his  white  waist 
coat  (if  white  waistcoats  be  the  fashion  of  the  hour),  washed 
out  of  existence — can  you  tell  where  it  is?  Can  you — unless 
you  are  one  of  those  people  who  frame  that  interesting  docu 
ment  and  hang  it  upon  their  drawing-room  walls? 

Mr.  B  rede's  voice  arose,  after  an  awful  stillness  of  what 
seemed  like  five  minutes,  and  was,  probably,  thirty  seconds: 

"Mr.  Jacobus,  will  you  make  out  your  bill  at  once,  and 
let  me  pay  it?  I  shall  leave  by  the  six  o'clock  train.  And 
will  you  also  send  the  wagon  for  my  trunks?" 

"I  hain't  said  I  wanted  to  hev  ye  leave "  began  Mr. 

Jacobus;  but  Brede  cut  him  short. 

"Bring  me  your  bill." 

"But,"  remonstrated  Jacobus,  "ef  ye  ain't " 

"Bring  me  your  bill!"  said  Mr.  Brede. 

****** 

My  wife  and  I  went  out  for  our  morning's  walk.  But  it 
seemed  to  us,  when  we  looked  at  "our  view,"  as  if  we  could 
only  see  those  invisible  villages  of  which  Brede  had  told  us 
— that  other  side  of  the  ridges  and  rises  of  which  we  catch 
no  glimpse  from  lofty  hills  or  from  the  heights  of  human 
self-esteem.  We  meant  to  stay  out  until  the  Bredes  had 


THE  NICE   PEOPLE  149 

taken  their  departure;  but  we  returned  just  in  time  to  see 
Pete,  the  Jacobus  darkey,  the  blacker  of  boots,  the  brusher 
of  coats,  the  general  handy-man  of  the  house,  loading  the 
Brede  trunks  on  the  Jacobus  wagon. 

And,  as  we  stepped  upon  the  verandah,  down  came  Mrs. 
Brede,  leaning  on  Mr.  Brede's  arm,  as  though  she  were 
ill;  and  it  was  clear  that  she  had  been  crymg.  There  were 
heavy  rings  about  her  pretty  black  eyes. 

My  wife  took  a  step  toward  her. 

"Look  at  that  dress,  dear,"  she  whispered;  "she  never 
thought  anything  like  this  was  going  to  happen  when  she 
put  that  on." 

It  was  a  pretty,  delicate,  dainty  dress,  a  graceful,  narrow- 
striped  affair.  Her  hat  was  trimmed  with  a  narrow-striped 
silk  of  the  same  colors — maroon  and  white — and  in  her 
hand  she  held  a  parasol  that  matched  her  dress. 

"She's  had  a  new  dress  on  twice  a  day,"  said  my  wife; 
"but  that's  the  prettiest  yet.  Oh,  somehow — I'm  awfully 
sorry  they're  going!" 

But  going  they  were.  They  moved  toward  the  steps. 
Mrs.  Brede  looked  toward  my  wife,  and  my  wife  moved 
toward  Mrs.  Brede.  But  the  ostracized  woman,  as  though 
she  felt  the  deep  humiliation  of  her  position,  turned  sharply 
away,  and  opened  her  parasol  to  shield  her  eyes  from  the 
sun.  A  shower  of  rice — a  half-pound  shower  of  rice — fell 
down  over  her  pretty  hat  and  her  pretty  dress,  and  fell  in  a 
spattering  circle  on  the  floor,  outlining  her  skirts — and  there 
it  lay  in  a  broad,  uneven  band,  bright  in  the  morning  sun. 

Mrs.  Brede  was  in  my  wife's  arms,  sobbing  as  if  her 
young  heart  would  break. 

"Oh,  you  poor,  dear,  silly  children!"  my  wife  cried,  as 
Mrs.  Brede  sobbed  on  her  shoulder,  "why  didn't  you  tell  us?" 

"W-W-W-We  didn't  want  to  be  t-t-taken  for  a  b-b-b-b- 
bridal  couple,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Brede;  "and  we  d-d-didn't 
dream  what  awful  lies  we'd  have  to  tell,  and  all  the  aw-aw- 

ful  mixed-up-ness  of  it.     Oh,  dear,  dear,  dear!" 

*  *  *    '         *  *  * 

"Pete!"  commanded  Mr.  Jacobus,  "put  back  them  trunks. 
These  folks  stays  here's  long's  they  wants  ter.  Mr. 


ISO    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

Brede "  he  held  out  a  large,  hard  hand — "I'd  orter've 

known  better,"  he  said.  And  my  last  doubt  of  Mr.  Brede 
vanished  as  he  shook  that  grimy  hand  in  manly  fashion. 

The  two  women  were  walking  off  toward  "our  view," 
each  with  an  arm  about  the  other's  waist — touched  by  a 
sudden  sisterhood  of  sympathy. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Brede,  addressing  Jacobus,  Big 
gie,  the  Major  and  me,  "there  is  a  hostelry  down  the 
street  where  they  sell  honest  New  Jersey  beer.  I  recognize 
the  obligations  of  the  situation." 

We  five  men  filed  down  the  street.  The  two  women  went 
toward  the  pleasant  slope  where  the  sunlight  gilded  the  fore 
head  of  the  great  hill.  On  Mr.  Jacobus's  veranda  lay  a 
spattered  circle  of  shining  grains  of  rice.  Two  of  Mr. 
Jacobus's  pigeons  flew  down  and  picked  up  the  shining 
grains,  making  grateful  noises  far  down  in  their  throats, 


THE  BULLER-PODINGTON 
COMPACT 

BY  FRANK  RICHARD  STOCKTON  (1834-1902) 

"  y  TELL  you,  William,"  said  Thomas  Buller  to  his  friend 
Mr.  Podington,  "I  am  truly  sorry  about  it,  but  I  can- 
not  arrange  for  it  this  year.  Now,  as  to  my  invitation 
— that  is  very  different." 

"Of  course  it  is  different,"  was  the  reply,  "but  I  am 
obliged  to  say,  as  I  said  before,  that  I  really  cannot  ac 
cept  it." 

Remarks  similar  to  these  had  been  made  by  Thomas  Bul 
ler  and  William  Podington  at  least  once  a  year  for  some 
five  years.  They  were  old  friends;  they  had  been  school 
boys  together  and  had  been  associated  in  business  since 
they  were  young  men.  They  had  now  reached  a  vigorous 
middle  age;  they  were  each  married,  and  each  had  a  house 
in  the  country  in  which  he  resided  for  a  part  of  the  year. 
They  were  warmly  attached  to  each  other,  and  each  was 
the  best  friend  which  the  other  had  in  this  world.  But  dur 
ing  all  these  years  neither  of  them  had  visited  the  other  in 
his  country  home. 

The  reason  for  this  avoidance  of  each  other  at  their  re 
spective  rural  residences  may  be  briefly  stated.  Mr.  Bul- 
ler's  country  house  was  situated  by  the  sea,  and  he  was 
very  fond  of  the  water.  He  had  a  good  cat-boat,  which 

From  Scribner's  Magazine,  August,  1897.  Republished  in 
Afield  and  Afloat,  by  Frank  Richard  Stockton ;  copyright,  1900, 
by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  th« 
publishers. 


H,     AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

he  sailed  himself  with  much  judgment  and  skill,  and  it  was 
his  greatest  pleasure  to  take  his  friends  and  visitors  upon 
Kttle  excursions  on  the  bay.  But  Mr.  Podington  was  des 
perately  afraid  of  the  water,  and  he  was  particularly  afraid 
of  any  craft  sailed  by  an  amateur.  If  his  friend  Buller 
would  have  employed  a  professional  mariner,  of  years  and 
experience,  to  steer  and  manage  his  boat,  Podington  might 
have  been  willing  to  take  an  occasional  sail;  but  as  Buller 
always  insisted  upon  sailing  his  own  boat,  and  took  it  ill 
if  any  of  his  visitors  doubted  his  ability  to  do  so  properly, 
Podington  did  not  wish  to  wound  the  self-love  of  his  friend, 
and  he  did  not  wish  to  be  drowned.  Consequently  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  consent  to  go  to  Buller's  house  by  the 
sea. 

To  receive  his  good  friend  Buller  at  his  own  house  in  the 
beautiful  upland  region  in  which  he  lived  would  have  been 
a  great  joy  to  Mr.  Podington;  but  Buller  could  not  be  in 
duced  to  visit  him.  Podington  was  very  fond  of  horses 
and  always  drove  himself,  while  Buller  was  more  afraid  of 
horses  than  he  was  of  elephants  or  lions.  To  one  or  more 
horses  driven  by  a  coachman  of  years  and  experience  he 
did  not  always  object,  but  to  a  horse  driven  by  Poddngton, 
who  had  much  experience  and  knowledge  regarding  mercan 
tile  affairs,  but  was  merely  an  amateur  horseman,  he  most 
decidedly  and  strongly  objected.  He  did  not  wish  to  hurt 
his  friend's  feelings  by  refusing  to  go  out  to  drive  with  him, 
but  he  would  not  rack  his  own  nervous  system  by  accom 
panying  him.  Therefore  it  was  that  he  had  not  yet  visited 
the  beautiful  upland  country  residence  of  Mr.  Podington. 

At  last  this  state  of  things  grew  awkward.  Mrs.  Buller 
and  Mrs.  Podington,  often  with  their  families,  visited  each 
other  at  their  country  houses,  but  the  fact  that  on  these 
occasions  they  were  never  accompanied  by  their  husbands 
caused  more  and  more  gossip  among  their  neighbors  both  in 
the  upland  country  and  by  the  sea. 

One  day  in  spring  as  the  two  sat  in  their  city  office, 
where  Mr.  Podington  had  just  repeated  his  annual  invita 
tion,  his  friend  replied  to  him  thus: 

"William,  if  I  come  to  see  you  this  summer,  will  you  visit 


THE  BULLER-PODINGTON  COMPACT        153 

me?     The  thing  is  beginning  to  look  a  little  ridiculous,  and 
people  are  talking  about  it." 

Mr.  Podington  put  his  hand  to  his  brow  and  for  a  fevf 
moments  closed  his  eyes.  In  his  mind  he  saw  a  cat-boat 
upon  its  side,  the  sails  spread  out  over  the  water,  and  two 
men,  almost  entirely  immersed  in  the  waves,  making  efforts 
to  reach  the  side  of  the  boat.  One  of  these  was  getting 
on  very  well — that  was  Buller.  The  other  seemed  about 
to  sink,  his  arms  were  uselessly  waving  in  the  air — that  was 
himself.  But  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  bravely  out 
of  the  window;  it  was  time  to  conquer  all  this;  it  was  indeed 
growing  ridiculous.  Buller  had  been  sailing  many  years 
and  had  never  been  upset. 

"Yes,"  said  he;  "I  will  do  it;  I  am  ready  any  time  you 
name." 

Mr.  Buller  rose  and  stretched  out  his  hand. 

"Good!"  said  he;  "it  is  a  compact!" 

Buller  was  the  first  to  make  the  promised  country  visit. 
He  had  not  mentioned  the  subject  of  horses  to  his  friend, 
but  he  knew  through  Mrs.  Buller  that  Podington  still  con 
tinued  to  be  his  own  driver.  She  had  informed  him,  how 
ever,  that  at  present  he  was  accustomed  to  drive  a  big  black 
horse  which,  in  her  opinion,  was  as  gentle  and  reliable  as 
these  animals  ever  became,  and  she  could  not  imagine  how 
anybody  could  be  afraid  of  him.  So  when,  the  next  morn 
ing  after  his  arrival,  Mr.  Buller  was  asked  by  his  host  if 
he  would  like  to  take  a  drive,  he  suppressed  a  certain  rising 
emotion  and  said  that  it  would  please  him  very  much. 

When  the  good  black  horse  had  jogged  along  a  pleasant 
road  for  half  an  hour  Mr.  Buller  began  to  feel  that,  per- 
ihaps,  for  all  these  years  he  had  been  laboring  under  a  mis 
conception.  It  seemed  to  be  possible  that  there  were  some 
horses  to  which  surrounding  circumstances  in  the  shape  of 
sights  and  sounds  were  so  irrelevant  that  they  were  to  a  cer 
tain  degree  entirely  safe,  even  when  guided  and  controlled 
by  an  amateur  hand.  As  they  passed  some  meadow-land, 
somebody  behind  a  hedge  fired  a  gun;  Mr.  Buller  was 
frightened,  but  the  horse  was  not. 

"William,"  said  Buller,  looking  cheerfully  around  him, 


154    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

HI  had  no  idea  that  you  lived  in  such  a  pretty  country.  In 
fact,  I  might  almost  call  it  beautiful.  You  have  not  any 
wide  stretch  of  water,  such  as  I  like  so  much,  but  here 
is  a  pretty  river,  those  rolling  hills  are  very  charming,  and, 
beyond,  you  have  the  blue  of  the  mountains." 

"It  is  lovely,"  said  his  friend;  "I  never  get  tired  of  driv 
ing  through  this  country.  Of  course  the  seaside  is  very 
fine,  but  here  we  have  such  a  variety  of  scenery." 

Mr.  Buller  could  not  help  thinking  that  sometimes  the 
seaside  was  a  little  monotonous,  and  that  he  had  lost  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure  by  not  varying  his  summers  by  going 
up  to  spend  a  week  or  two  with  Podington. 

"William,"  said  he,  "how  long  have  you  had  this  horse?" 

"About  two  years,"  said  Mr.  Podington;  "before  I  got 
him,  I  used  to  drive  a  pair." 

"Heavens!"  thought  Buller,  "how  lucky  I  was  not  to  come 
two  years  ago!"  And  his  regrets  for  not  sooner  visiting 
his  friend  greatly  decreased. 

Now  they  came  to  a  place  where  the  stream,  by  which 
the  road  ran,  had  been  dammed  for  a  mill  and  had  widened 
into  a  beautiful  pond. 

"There  now!"  cried  Mr.  Buller.  "That's  what  I  like. 
William,  you  seem  to  have  everything!  This  is  really  a 
very  pretty  sheet  of  water,  and  the  reflections  of  the  trees 
over  there  make  a  charming  picture;  you  can't  get  that  at 
the  seaside,  you  know." 

Mr.  Podington  was  delighted;  his  face  glowed;  he  was 
rejoiced  at  the  pleasure  of  his  friend.  "I  tell  you,  Thomas," 
said  he,  "that " 

"William!"  exclaimed  Buller,  with  a  sudden  squirm  in 
his  seat,  "what  is  that  I  hear?  Is  that  a  train?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Podington,  "that  is  the  ten-forty,  up." 

"Does  it  come  near  here?"  asked  Mr.  Buller,  nervously. 
"Does  it  go  over  that  bridge?" 

"Yes,"  said  Podington,  "but  it  can't  hurt  us,  for  our 
road  goes  under  the  bridge;  we  are  perfectly  safe;  there  is 
no  risk  of  accident." 

"But  your  horse!  Your  horse!"  exclaimed  Buller,  as  the 
train  came  nearer  and  nearer.  "What  will  he  do?" 


THE  BULLER-PODINGTON  COMPACT        155' 

"Do?"  said  Podington;  "he'll  do  what  he  is  doing  now; 
he  doesn't  mind  trains." 

"But  look  here,  William,"  exclaimed  Buller,  "it  will  get 
there  just  as  we  do;  no  horse  could  stand  a  roaring  up  in 
the  air  like  that!" 

Podington  laughed.  "He  would  not  mind  it  in  the  least," 
said  he. 

"Come,  come  now,"  cried  Buller.  "Really,  I  can't  stand 
this!  Just  stop  a  minute,  William,  and  let  me  get  out.  It 
sets  all  my  nerves  quivering." 

Mr.  Podington  smiled  with  a  superior  smile.  "Oh,  yoti 
needn't  get  out,"  said  he;  "there's  not  the  least  danger  in 
the  world.  But  I  don't  want  to  make  you  nervous,  and 
I  will  turn  around  and  drive  the  other  way." 

"But  you  can't!"  screamed  Buller.  "This  road  is  not 
wide  enough,  and  that  train  is  nearly  here.  Please  stop!" 

The  imputation  that  the  road  was  not  wide  enough  for 
him  to  turn  was  too  much  for  Mr.  Podington  to  bear.  He 
was  very  proud  of  his  ability  to  turn  a  vehicle  in  a  narrow 
place. 

"Turn!"  said  he;  "that's  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world. 
See;  a  little  to  the  right,  then  a  back,  then  a  sweep  to  the 
left  and  we  will  be  going  the  other  way."  And  instantly 
he  began  the  maneuver  in  which  he  was  such  an  adept. 

"Oh,  Thomas!"  cried  Buller,  half  rising  in  his  seat,  "that 
train  is  almost  here!" 

"And  we  are  almost "  Mr.  Poddington  was  about  to 

say  "turned  around,"  but  he  stopped.  Mr.  Buller's  ex 
clamations  had  made  him  a  little  nervous,  and,  in  his  anxiety 
to  turn  quickly,  he  had  pulled  upon  his  horse's  bit  with 
more  energy  than  was  actually  necessary,  and  his  nervous 
ness  being  communicated  to  the  horse,  that  animal  backed 
with  such  extraordinary  vigor  that  the  hind  wheels  of  the 
wagon  went  over  a  bit  of  grass  by  the  road  and  into  the 
water.  The  sudden  jolt  gave  a  new  impetus  to  Mr.  Buller's 
fears. 

"You'll  upset!"  he  cried,  and  not  thinking  of  what  he 
was  about,  he  laid  hold  of  his  friend's  arm.  The  horse, 
startled  by  this  sudden  jerk  upon  his  bit,  which,  combined 


^6    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

with  the  thundering  of  the  train,  which  was  now  on  the 
bridge,  made  him  think  that  something  extraordinary  was 
about  to  happen,  gave  a  sudden  and  forcible  start  back 
ward,  so  that  not  only  the  hind  wheels  of  the  light  v/agon, 
but  the  fore  wheels  and  his  own  hind  legs  went  into  the 
water.  As  the  bank  at  this  spot  sloped  steeply,  the  wagon 
continued  to  go  backward,  despite  the  efforts  of  the  agitated 
horse  to  find  a  footing  on  the  crumbling  edge  of  the  bank. 

"Whoa!"  cried  Mr.  Buller. 

"Get  up!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Podington,  applying  his  whip 
upon  the  plunging  beast. 

But  exclamations  and  castigations  had  no  effect  upon  the 
horse.  The  original  bed  of  the  stream  ran  close  to  the 
road,  and  the  bank  was  so  steep  and  the  earth  so  soft  that 
it  was  impossible  for  the  horse  to  advance  or  even  maintain 
his  footing.  Back,  back  he  went,  until  the  whole  equipage 
was  in  the  water  and  the  wagon  was  afloat. 

This  vehicle  was  a  road  wagon,  without  a  top,  and  the 
joints  of  its  box-body  were  tight  enough  to  prevent  the 
water  from  immediately  entering  it;  so,  somewhat  deeply 
sunken,  it  rested  upon  the  water.  There  was  a  current  in 
this  part  of  the  pond  and  it  turned  the  wagon  downstream. 
The  horse  was  now  entirely  immersed  in  the  water,  with 
the  exception  of  his  head  and  the  upper  part  of  his  neck, 
and,  unable  to  reach  the  bottom  with  his  feet,  he  made 
vigorous  efforts  to  swim. 

Mr.  Podington,  the  reins  and  whip  in  his  hands,  sat  hor 
rified  and  pale;  the  accident  was  so  sudden,  he  was  so 
startled  and  so  frightened  that,  for  a  moment,  he  could  not 
speak  a  word.  Mr.  Buller,  on  the  other  hand,  was  now 
lively  and  alert.  The  wagon  had  no  sooner  floated  away 
from  the  shore  than  he  felt  himself  at  home.  He  was  upon 
his  favorite  element;  water  had  no  fears  for  him.  He  saw 
that  his  friend  was  nearly  frightened  out  of  his  wits,  and 
that,  figuratively  speaking,  he  must  step  to  the  helm  and 
take  charge  of  the  vessel.  He  stood  up  and  gazed  about 
him. 

"Put  her  across  stream!"  he  shouted;  "she  can't  make 
headway  against  this  current.  Head  her  to  that  clump  of 


THE  BULLER-PODINGTON  COMPACT        157 

trees  on  the  other  side;  the  bank  is  lower  there,  and  we 
can  beach  her.  Move  a  little  the  other  way,  we  must  trim 
boat.  Now  then,  pull  on  your  starboard  rein." 

Podington  obeyed,  and  the  horse  slightly  changed  his 
direction. 

"You  see,"  said  Buller,  "it  won't  do  to  sail  straight  across, 
because  the  current  would  carry  us  down  and  land  us  be 
low  that  spot." 

Mr.  Podington  said  not  a  word;  he  expected  every  mo 
ment  to  see  the  horse  sink  into  a  watery  grave. 

"It  isn't  so  bad  after  all,  is  it,  Podington?  If  we  had  a 
rudder  and  a  bit  of  a  sail  it  would  be  a  great  help  to  the 
horse.  This  wagon  is  not"  a  bad  boat." 

The  despairing  Podington  looked  at  his  feet.  "It's  com 
ing  in,"  he  said  in  a  husky  voice.  "Thomas,  the  water  is 
over  my  shoes!" 

"That  is  so,"  said  Buller.  "I  am  so  used  to  water  I  didn't 
notice  it.  She  leaks.  Do  you  carry  anything  to  bail  her 
out  with?" 

"Bail!"  cried  Podington,  now  finding  his  voice.  "Oh, 
Thomas,  we  are  sinking!" 

"That's  so,"  said  Buller;  "she  leaks  like  a  sieve." 

The  weight  of  the  running-gear  and  of  the  two  men  was 
entirely  too  much  for  the  buoyancy  of  the  wagon  body. 
The  water  rapidly  rose  toward  the  top  of  its  sides. 

"We  are  going  to  drown!"  cried  Podington,  suddenly 
rising. 

"Lick  him!  Lick  him!"  exclaimed  Buller.  "Make  him 
swim  faster!" 

"There's  nothing  to  lick,"  cried  Podington,  vainly  lashing 
at  the  water,  for  he  could  not  reach  the  horse's  head.  The 
poor  man  was  dreadfully  frightened;  he  had  never  even 
imagined  it  possible  that  he  should  be  drowned  in  his  own 
wagon. 

"Whoop!"  cried  Buller,  as  the  water  rose  over  the 
sides.  "Steady  yourself,  old  boy,  or  you'll  go  over 
board!"  And  the  next  moment  the  wagon  body  sunk  out 
of  sight. 

But  it  did  not  go  down  very  far.    The  deepest  part  of 


158    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

the  channel  of  the  stream  had  been  passed,  and  with  a 
bump  the  wheels  struck  the  bottom. 

"Heavens!"  exclaimed  Buller,  "we  are  aground." 

"Aground!"  exclaimed  Podington.    "Heaven  be  praised!" 

As  the  two  men  stood  up  in  the  submerged  wagon  the 
water  was  above  their  knees,  and  when  Podington  looked 
out  over  the  surface  of  the  pond,  now  so  near  his  face,  it 
seemed  like  a  sheet  of  water  he  had  never  seen  before.  It 
was  something  horrible,  threatening  to  rise  and  envelop  him. 
He  trembled  so  that  he  could  scarcely  keep  his  footing. 

"William,"  said  his  companion,  "you  must  sit  down;  if 
you  don't,  you'll  tumble  overboard  and  be  drowned.  There 
is  nothing  for  you  to  hold  to." 

"Sit  down,"  said  Podington,  gazing  blankly  at  the  water 
around  him,  "I  can't  do  that!" 

At  this  moment  the  horse  made  a  slight  movement.  Hav 
ing  touched  bottom  after  his  efforts  in  swimming  across  the 
main  bed  of  the  stream,  with  a  floating  wagon  in  tow,  he 
had  stood  for  a  few  moments,  his  head  and  neck  well  above 
water,  and  his  back  barely  visible  beneath  the  surface. 
Having  recovered  his  breath,  he  now  thought  it  was  time 
to  move  on. 

At  the  first  step  of  the  horse  Mr.  Podington  began  to 
totter.  Instinctively  he  clutched  Buller. 

"Sit  down!"  cried  the  latter,  "or  you'll  have  us  both 
overboard."  There  was  no  help  for  it;  down  sat  Mr.  Pod 
ington;  and,  as  with  a  great  splash  he  came  heavily  upon 
the  seat,  the  water  rose  to  his  waist. 

"Ough!"  said  he.    "Thomas,  shout  for  help." 

"No  use  doing  that,"  replied  Buller,  still  standing  on  his 
nautical  legs;  "I  don't  see  anybody,  and  I  don't  see  any 
boat.  We'll  get  out  all  right.  Just  you  stick  tight  to  the 
thwart." 

"The  what?"  feebly  asked  the  other. 

"Oh,  the  seat,  I  mean.  We  can  get  to  the  shore  all  right 
if  you  steer  the  horse  straight.  Head  him  more  across  the 
pond." 

"I  can't  head  him,"  cried  Podington,  "I  have  dropped 
the  reins!" 


THE  BULLER-PODINGTON  COMPACT        159 

"Good  gracious!"  cried  Mr.  Buller,  "that's  bad.  Can't 
you  steer  him  by  shouting  'Gee'  and  'Haw'?" 

"No,"  said  Podington,  "he  isn't  an  ox;  but  perhaps  I 
can  stop  him."  And  with  as  much  voice  as  he  could  sum 
mon,  he  called  out:  "Whoa!"  and  the  horse  stopped. 

"If  you  can't  steer  him  any  other  way,"  said  Buller, 
"we  must  get  the  reins.  Lend  me  your  whip." 

"I  have  dropped  that  too,"  said  Podington;  "there  it 
floats." 

"Oh,  dear,"  said  Buller,  "I  guess  I'll  have  to  dive  for 
them;  if  he  were  to  run  away,  we  should  be  in  an  awful 
fix." 

"Don't  get  out!  Don't  get  out!"  exclaimed  Podington, 
"You  can  reach  over  the  dashboard." 

"As  that's  under  water,"  said  Buller,  "it  will  be  the  same 
thing  as  diving;  but  it's  got  to  be  done,  and  I'll  try  it. 
Don't  you  move  now;  I  am  more  used  to  water  than  you 
are." 

Mr.  Buller  took  off  his  hat  and  asked  his  friend  to  hold  it. 
He  thought  of  his  watch  and  other  contents  of  his  pockets, 
but  there  was  no  place  to  put  them,  so  he  gave  them  no 
more  consideration.  Then  bravely  getting  on  his  knees  in 
the  water,  he  leaned  over  the  dashboard,  almost  disappear 
ing  from  sight.  With  his  disengaged  hand  Mr.  Podington 
grasped  the  submerged  coat-tails  of  his  friend. 

In  a  few  seconds  the  upper  part  of  Mr.  Buller  rose  from 
the  water.  He  was  dripping  and  puffing,  and  Mr.  Poding 
ton  could  not  but  think  what  a  difference  it  made  in  the 
appearance  of  his  friend  to  have  his  hair  plastered  close  to 
his  head. 

"I  got  hold  of  one  of  them,"  said  the  sputtering  Buller, 
"but  it  was  fast  to  something  and  I  couldn't  get  it  loose." 

"Was  it  thick  and  wide?"  asked  Podington. 

"Yes,"  was  the  answer;  "it  did  seem  so." 

"Oh,  that  was  a  trace,"  said  Podington;  "I  don't  want 
that;  the  reins  are  thinner  and  lighter." 

"Now  I  remember  they  are,"  said  Buller.  "I'll  go  down 
again." 

Again  Mr.  Buller  leaned  over  the  dashboard,  and  this 


i6o    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

time  he  remained  down  longer,  and  when  he  came  up  he 
puffed  and  sputtered  more  than  before. 

"Is  this  it?"  said  he,  holding  up  a  strip  of  wet  leather. 

"Yes,"  said  Podington,  "you've  got  the  reins." 

"Well,  take  them,  and  steer.  I  would  have  found  them 
sooner  if  his  tail  had  not  got  into  my  eyes.  That  long  tail's 
floating  down  there  and  spreading  itself  out  like  a  fan;  it 
tangled  itself  all  around  my  head.  It  would  have  been 
much  easier  if  he  had  been  a  bob-tailed  horse." 

"Now  then,"  said  Podington,  "take  your  hat,  Thomas, 
and  I'll  try  to  drive." 

Mr.  Buller  put  on  his  hat,  which  was  the  only  dry  thing 
about  him,  and  the  nervous  Podington  started  the  horse  so 
suddenly  that  even  the  sea-legs  of  Buller  were  surprised, 
and  he  came  very  near  going  backward  into  the  water;  but 
recovering  himself,  he  sat  down. 

"I  don't  wonder  you  did  net  like  to  do  this,  William," 
said  he.  "Wet  as  I  am,  it's  ghastly!" 

Encouraged  by  his  master's  voice,  and  by  the  feeling  of  the 
familiar  hand  upon  his  bit,  the  horse  moved  bravely  on. 

But  the  bottom  was  very  rough  and  uneven.  Sometimes 
the  wheels  struck  a  large  stone,  terrifying  Mr.  Buller,  who 
thought  they  were  going  to  upset;  and  sometimes  they  sank 
into  soft  mud,  horrifying  Mr.  Podington,  who  thought  they 
were  going  to  drown. 

Thus  proceeding,  they  presented  a  strange  sight.  At 
first  Mr.  Podington  held  his  hands  above  the  water  as  he 
drove,  but  he  soon  found  this  awkward,  and  dropped  them 
to  their  usual  position,  so  that  nothing  was  visible  above  the 
water  but  the  head  and  neck  of  a  horse  and  the  heads  and 
shoulders  of  two  men. 

Now  the  submarine  equipage  came  to  a  low  place  in  the 
bottom,  and  even  Mr.  Buller  shuddered  as  the  water  rose 
to  his  chin.  Podington  gave  a  howl  of  horror,  and  the 
horse,  with  high,  uplifted  head,  was  obliged  to  swim.  At 
this  moment  a  boy  with  a  gun  came  strolling  along  the 
road,  and  hearing  Mr.  Podington's  cry,  he  cast  his  eyes  over 
the  water.  Instinctively  he  raised  his  weapon  to  his  shoul 
der,  and  then,  in  an  instant,  perceiving  that  the  objects  he 


THE  BULLER-PODINGTON  COMPACT        161 

beheld  were  not  aquatic  birds,  he  dropped  his  gun  and  ran 
yelling  down  the  road  toward  the  mill. 

But  the  hollow  in  the  bottom  was  a  narrow  one,  and 
when  it  was  passed  the  depth  of  the  water  gradually  de 
creased.  The  back  of  the  horse  came  into  view,  the  dash 
board  became  visible,  and  the  bodies  and  the  spirits  of  the 
two  men  rapidly  rose.  Now  there  was  vigorous  splashing 
and  tugging,  and  then  a  jet  black  horse,  shining  as  if  he 
had  been  newly  varnished,  pulled  a  dripping  wagon  con 
taining  two  well-soaked  men  upon  a  shelving  shore. 

"Oh,  I  am  chilled  to  the  bones!"  said  Podington. 

"I  should  think  so,"  replied  his  friend;  "if  you  have 
got  to  be  wet,  it  is  a  great  deal  pleasanter  under  the 
water." 

There  was  a  field-road  on  this  side  of  the  pond  which 
Podington  well  knew,  and  proceeding  along  this  they  came 
to  the  bridge  and  got  into  the  main  road. 

"Now  we  must  get  home  as  fast  as  we  can,"  cried  Pod< 
ington,  "or  we  shall  both  take  cold.  I  wish  I  hadn't  lost 
my  whip.  Hi  now!  Get  along!" 

Podington  was  now  full  of  life  and  energy,  his  wheels 
were  on  the  hard  road,  and  he  was  himself  again. 

When  he  found  his  head  was  turned  toward  his  home, 
the  horse  set  off  at  a  great  rate. 

"Hi  there!"  cried  Podington.  "I  am  so  sorry  I  lost  my 
whip." 

"Whip!"  said  Buller,  holding  fast  to  the  side  of  the  seat; 
"surely  you  don't  want  him  to  go  any  faster  than  this. 
And  look  here,  William,"  he  added,  "it  seems  to  me  we 
are  much  more  likely  to  take  cold  in  our  wet  clothes  if  we 
rush  through  the  air  in  this  way.  Really,  it  seems  to  me 
that  horse  is  running  away." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  cried  Podington.  "He  wants  to  get 
home,  and  he  wants  his  dinner.  Isn't  he  a  fine  horse?  Look 
how  he  steps  out!" 

"Steps  out!"  said  Buller,  "I  think  I'd  like  to  step  out 
myself.  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  wiser  for  me  to  walk 
home,  William?  That  will  warm  me  up." 

"It  will  take  you  an  hour,"  said  his  friend.     "Stay  where 


1 62    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

you  are,  and  I'll  have  you  in  a  dry  suit  of  clothes  hi  less 
than  fifteen  minutes." 

"I  tell  you,  William,"  said  Mr.  Buller,  as  the  two  sat 
smoking  after  dinner,  "what  you  ought  to  do;  you  should 
never  go  out  driving  without  a  life-preserver  and  a  pair  of 
oars;  I  always  take  them.  It  would  make  you  feel  safer." 

Mr.  Buller  went  home  the  next  day,  because  Mr.  Poding- 
ton's  clothes  did  not  fit  him,  and  his  own  outdoor  suit  was 
so  shrunken  as  to  be  uncomfortable.  Besides,  there  was 
another  reason,  connected  with  the  desire  of  horses  to  reach 
their  homes,  which  prompted  his  return.  But  he  had  not 
forgotten  his  compact  with  his  friend,  and  in  the  course  of 
a  week  he  wrote  to  Podington,  inviting  him  to  spend  some 
days  with  him.  Mr.  Podington  was  a  man  of  honor,  and 
in  spite  of  his  recent  unfortunate  water  experience  he  would 
not  break  his  word.  He  went  to  Mr.  Buller's  seaside  home 
at  the  time  appointed. 

Early  on  the  morning  after  his  arrival,  before  the  family 
were  up,  Mr.  Podington  went  out  and  strolled  down  to 
the  edge  of  the  bay.  He  went  to  look  at  Buller's  boat.  He 
was  well  aware  that  he  would  be  asked  to  take  a  sail,  and 
as  Buller  had  driven  with  him,  it  would  be  impossible  for 
him  to  decline  sailing  with  Buller;  but  he  must  see  the 
boat.  There  was  a  train  for  his  home  at  a  quarter  past 
seven ;  if  he  were  not  on  the  premises  he  could  not  be  asked 
to  sail.  If  Buller's  boat  were  a  little,  flimsy  thing,  he 
would  take  that  train — 'but  he  would  wait  and  see. 

There  was  only  one  small  boat  anchored  near  the  beach, 
and  a  man — apparently  a  fisherman — informed  Mr.  Poding 
ton  that  it  belonged  to  Mr.  Buller.  Podington  looked  at  it 
eagerly;  it  was  not  very  small  and  not  flimsy. 

"Do  you  consider  that  a  safe  boat?"  he  asked  the  fisher 
man. 

"Safe?"  replied  the  man.  "You  could  not  upset  her  if 
you  tried.  Look  at  her  breadth  of  beam!  You  could  go 
anywhere  in  that  boat!  Are  you  thinking  of  buying 
her?" 

The  idea  that  he  would  think  of  buying  a  boat  made 
Mr.  Podington  laugh.  The  information  that  it  would  be 


THE  BULLER-PODINGTON  COMPACT        163 

impossible  to  upset  the  little  vessel  had  greatly  cheered  him. 
and  he  could  laugh. 

Shortly  after  breakfast  Mr.  Buller,  like  a  nurse  with  a 
dose  of  medicine,  came  to  Mr.  Podington  with  the  expected 
invitation  to  take  a  sail. 

"Now,  William,"  said  his  host,  "I  understand  perfectly 
your  feeling  about  boats,  and  what  I  wish  to  prove  to  you 
is  that  it  is  a  feeling  without  any  foundation.  I  don't  want 
to  shock  you  or  make  you  nervous,  so  I  am  not  going  to 
take  you  out  today  on  the  bay  in  my  boat.  You  are  as 
safe  on  the  bay  as  you  would  be  on  land — a  little  safer, 
perhaps,  under  certain  circumstances,  to  which  we  will  not 
allude — but  still  it  is  sometimes  a  little  rough,  and  this,  at 
first,  might  cause  you  some  uneasiness,  and  so  I  am  going 
to  let  you  begin  your  education  in  the  sailing  line  on  per 
fectly  smooth  water.  About  three  miles  back  of  us  there 
is  a  very  pretty  lake  several  miles  long.  It  is  part  of  the 
canal  system  which  connects  the  town  with  the  railroad.  I 
have  sent  my  boat  to  the  town,  and  we  can  walk  up  there 
and  go  by  the  canal  to  the  lake;  it  is  only  about  three 
miles." 

If  he  had  to  sail  at  all,  this  kind  of  sailing  suited  Mr. 
Podington.  A  canal,  a  quiet  lake,  and  a  boat  which  could 
not  be  upset.  When  they  reached  the  town  the  boat  was 
in  the  canal,  ready  for  them. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Buller,  "you  get  in  and  make  yourself 
comfortable.  My  idea  is  to  hitch  on  to  a  canal-boat  and  be 
towed  to  the  lake.  The  boats  generally  start  about  this 
time  in  the  morning,  and  I  will  go  and  see  about  it." 

Mr.  Podington,  under  the  direction  of  his  friend,  took  a 
seat  in  the  stern  of  the  sailboat,  and  then  he  remarked: 

"Thomas,  have  you  a  life-preserver  on  board?  You 
know  I  am  not  used  to  any  kind  of  vessel,  and  I  am  clumsy. 
Nothing  might  happen  to  the  boat,  but  I  might  trip  an<f 
fall  overboard,  and  I  can't  swim." 

"All  right,"  said  Buller;  "here's  a  life-preserver,  and  yoq 
can  put  it  on.  I  want  you  to  feel  perfectly  safe.  Now  > 
will  go  and  see  about  the  tow." 

But  Mr.   Buller  found  that  the  canal-boats  would  not 


1 64    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

start  at  their  usual  time;  the  loading  of  one  of  them  was 
not  finished,  and  he  was  informed  that  he  might  have  to 
wait  for  an  hour  or  more.  This  did  not  suit  Mr.  Buller 
at  all,  and  he  did  not  hesitate  to  show  his  annoyance. 

"I  tell  you,  sir,  what  you  can  do,"  said  one  of  the  men 
in  charge  of  the  boats;  "if  you  don't  want  to  wait  till  we 
are  ready  to  start,  we'll  let  you  have  a  boy  and  a  horse  to 
tow  you  up  to  the  lake.  That  won't  cost  you  much,  and 
they'll  be  back  before  we  want  'em." 

The  bargain  was  made,  and  Mr.  Buller  joyfully  returned 
to  his  boat  with  the  intelligence  that  they  were  not  to  wait 
for  the  canal-boats.  A  long  rope,  with  a  horse  attached  to 
the  other  end  of  it,  was  speedily  made  fast  to  the  boat,  and 
with  a  boy  at  the  head  of  the  horse,  they  started  up  the 
canal. 

"Now  this  is  the  kind  of  sailing  I  like,"  said  Mr.  Pod- 
dington.  "If  I  lived  near  a  canal  I  believe  I  would  buy  a 
boat  and  train  my  horse  to  tow.  I  could  have  a  long  pair 
of  rope-lines  and  drive  him  myself;  then  when  the  roads 
were  rough  and  bad  the  canal  would  always  be  smooth." 

"This  is  all  very  nice,"  replied  Mr.  Buller,  who  sat  by  the 
tiller  to  keep  the  boat  away  from  the  bank,  "and  I  am  glad 
to  see  you  in  a  boat  under  any  circumstances.  Do  you 
know,  William,  that  although  I  did  not  plan  it,  there  could 
not  have  been  a  better  way  to  begin  your  sailing  education. 
Here  we  glide  along,  slowly  and  gently,  with  no  possible 
thought  of  danger,  for  if  the  boat  should  suddenly  spring  a 
leak,  as  if  it  were  the  body  of  a  wagon,  all  we  would  have 
to  do  would  be  to  step  on  shore,  and  by  the  time  you  get 
to  the  end  of  the  canal  you  will  like  this  gentle  motion  so 
much  that  you  will  be  perfectly  ready  to  begin  the  second 
-stage  of  your  nautical  education." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Podington.  "How  long  did  you  say  this 
canal  is?" 

"About  three  miles,"  answered  his  friend.  "Then  we  will 
go  into  the  lock  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  shall  be  on  the 
lake." 

"So  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  said  Mr.  Podington,  "I  wish 
the  canal  were  twelve  miles  long.  I  cannot  imagine  any- 


THE  BULLER-PODINGTON  COMPACT        165 

thing  pleasanter  than  this.  If  I  lived  anywhere  near  a  canal 
• — a  long  canal,  I  mean,  this  one  is  too  short — I'd " 

"Come,  come  now,"  interrupted  Buller.  "Don't  be  con 
tent  to  stay  in  the  primary  school  just  because  it  is  easy. 
When  we  get  on  the  lake  I  will  show  you  that  in  a  boat, 
with  a  gentle  breeze,  such  as  we  are  likely  to  have  today, 
you  will  find  the  motion  quite  as  pleasing,  and  ever  so  much 
more  inspiriting.  I  should  not  be  a  bit  surprised,  William, 
if  after  you  have  been  two  or  three  times  on  the  lake  you 
will  ask  me — yes,  positively  ask  me — to  take  you  out  on 
the  bay!" 

Mr.  Podington  smiled,  and  leaning  backward,  he  looked 
up  at  the  beautiful  blue  sky. 

"You  can't  give  me  anything  better  than  this,  Thomas," 
said  he;  "but  you  needn't  think  I  am  weakening;  you  drove 
with  me,  and  I  will  sail  with  you." 

The  thought  came  into  Buller's  mind  that  he  had  done 
both  of  these  things  with  Podington,  but  he  did  not  wish  to 
call  up  unpleasant  memories,  and  said  nothing. 

About  half  a  mile  from  the  town  there  stood  a  small  cot 
tage  where  house-cleaning  was  going  on,  and  on  a  fence,  not 
far  from  the  canal,  there  hung  a  carpet  gaily  adorned  with 
stripes  and  spots  of  red  and  yellow. 

When  the  drowsy  tow-horse  came  abreast  of  the  house, 
and  the  carpet  caught  his  eye,  he  suddenly  stopped  and 
gave  a  start  toward  the  canal.  Then,  impressed  with  a 
horror  of  the  glaring  apparition,  he  gathered  himself  up, 
and  with  a  bound  dashed  along  the  tow-path.  The  as 
tounded  boy  gave  a  shout,  but  was  speedily  left  behind. 
The  boat  of  Mr.  Buller  shot  forward  as  if  she  had  been 
struck  by  a  squall. 

The  terrified  horse  sped  on  as  if  a  red  and  yellow  demon 
were  after  him.  The  boat  bounded,  and  plunged,  and  fre 
quently  struck  the  grassy  bank  of  the  canal,  as  if  it  would 
break  itself  to  pieces.  Mr.  Podington  clutched  the  boom 
to  keep  himself  from  being  thrown  out,  while  Mr.  Buller, 
both  hands  upon  the  tiller,  frantically  endeavored  to  keep 
the  boat  from  the  bank. 

"William!"  he  screamed,  "he  is  running  away  with  us; 


166    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

we  shall  be  dashed  to  pieces!     Can't  you  get  forward  and 
cast  off  that  line?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  Podington,  as  the  boom 
gave  a  great  jerk  as  if  it  would  break  its  fastenings  and 
drag  him  overboard. 

"I  mean  untie  the  tow-line.  We'll  be  smashed  if  you 
don't!  I  can't  leave  this  tiller.  Don't  try  to  stand  up; 
bold  on  to  the  boom  and  creep  forward.  Steady  now,  or 
you'll  be  overboard!" 

Mr.  Podington  stumbled  to  the  bow  of  the  boat,  his 
efforts  greatly  impeded  by  the  big  cork  life-preserver  tied 
under  his  arms,  and  the  motion  of  the  boat  was  so  violent 
and  erratic  that  he  was  obliged  to  hold  on  to  the  mast  with 
one  arm  and  to  try  to  loosen  the  knot  with  the  other;  but 
there  was  a  great  strain  on  the  rope,  and  he  could  do  noth 
ing  with  one  hand. 

"Cut  it!     Cut  it!"  cried  Mr.  Buller. 

"I  haven't  a  knife,"  replied  Podington. 

Mr.  Buller  was  terribly  frightened;  his  boat  was  cutting 
through  the  water  as  never  vessel  of  her  class  had  sped  since 
sail-boats  were  invented,  and  bumping  against  the  bank  as 
if  she  were  a  billiard-ball  rebounding  from  the  edge  of  a 
table.  He  forgot  he  was  in  a  boat;  he  only  knew  that  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  in  a  runaway.  He  let  go 
the  tiller.  It  was  of  no  use  to  him. 

"William,"  he  cried,  "let  us  jump  out  the  next  time  we 
are  near  enough  to  shore!" 

"Don't  do  that!  Don't  do  that!"  replied  Podington. 
"Don't  jump  out  in  a  runaway;  that  is  the  way  to  get 
hurt.  Stick  to  your  seat,  my  boy;  he  can't  keep  this  up 
much  longer.  He'll  lose  his  wind!" 

Mr.  Podington  was  greatly  excited,  but  he  was  not  fright 
ened,  as  Buller  was.  He  had  been  in  a  runaway  before, 
and  he  could  not  help  thinking  how  much  better  a  wagon 
was  than  a  boat  in  such  a  case. 

"If  he  were  hitched  up  shorter  and  I  had  a  snaffle-bit  and 
a  stout  pair  of  reins,"  thought  he,  "I  could  soon  bring 
him  up." 

But  Mr.  Buller  was  rapidly  losing  his  wits.     The  horse 


THE  BULLER-PODINGTON  COMPACT        167 

seemed  to  be  going  faster  than  ever.  The  boat  bumped 
harder  against  the  bank,  and  at  one  time  Buller  thought 
they  could  turn  over. 

Suddenly  a  thought  struck  him. 

"William,"  he  shouted,  "tip  that  anchor  over  the  side! 
Throw  it  in,  any  way!" 

Mr.  Podington  looked  about  him,  and,  almost  under  his 
feet,  saw  the  anchor.  He  did  not  instantly  comprehend 
why  Buller  wanted  it  thrown  overboard,  but  this  was  not 
a  time  to  ask  questions.  The  difficulties  imposed  by  the 
life-preserver,  and  the  necessity  of  holding  on  with  one 
hand,  interfered  very  much  with  his  getting  at  the  anchor 
and  throwing  it  over  the  side,  but  at  last  he  succeeded,  and 
just  as  the  boat  threw  up  her  bow  as  if  she  were  about  to 
jump  on  shore,  the  anchor  went  out  and  its  line  shot  after 
it.  There  was  an  irregular  trembling  of  the  boat  as  the 
anchor  struggled  along  the  bottom  of  the  canal;  then  there 
was  a  great  shock;  the  boat  ran  into  the  bank  and  stopped; 
the  tow-line  was  tightened  like  a  guitar-string,  and  the 
horse,  jerked  back  with  great  violence,  came  tumbling  in  a 
heap  upon  the  ground. 

Instantly  Mr.  Podington  was  on  the  shore  and  running 
at  the  top  of  his  speed  toward  the  horse.  The  astounded 
animal  had  scarcely  begun  to  struggle  to  his  feet  when 
Podington  rushed  upon  him,  pressed  his  head  back  to  the 
ground,  and  sat  upon  it. 

"Hurrah! "  he  cried,  waving  his  hat  above  his  head.  "Get 
out,  Buller;  he  is  all  right  now!" 

Presently  Mr.  Buller  approached,  very  much  shaken  up. 

"All  right?"  he  said.  "I  don't  call  a  horse  flat  in  a  road 
with  a  man  on  his  head  all  right;  but  hold  him  down  till 
we  get  him  loose  from  my  boat.  That  is  the  thing  to  do. 
William,  cast  him  loose  from  the  boat  before  you  let  him 
up!  What  will  he  do  when  he  gets  up?" 

"Oh.  he'll  be  quiet  enough  when  he  gets  up,"  said  Poding 
ton.  "But  if  you've  got  a  knife  you  can  cut  his  traces — 
I  mean  that  rope — but  no,  you  needn't.  Here  comes  the 
boy.  We'll  settle  this  business  in  very  short  order  now." 

When  the  horse  was  on  his  feet,  and  all  connection  between 


1 68    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

the  animal  and  the  boat  had  been  severed,  Mr.  Podington 
looked  at  his  friend. 

"Thomas,"  said  he,  "you  seem  to  have  had  a  hard  time 
of  it.  You  have  lost  your  hat  and  you  look  as  if  you  had 
been  in  a  wrestling-match." 

"I  have,"  replied  the  other;  "I  wrestled  with  that  tiller 
and  I  wonder  it  didn't  throw  me  out." 

Now  approached  the  boy.  "Shall  I  hitch  him  on  again, 
sir?"  said  he.  "He's  quiet  enough  now." 

"No,"  cried  Mr.  Buller;  "I  want  no  more  sailing  after  a 
horse,  and,  besides,  we  can't  go  on  the  lake  with  that  boat; 
she  has  been  battered  about  so  much  that  she  must  have 
opened  a  dozen  seams.  The  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to  walk 
home." 

Mr.  Podington  agreed  with  his  friend  that  walking  home 
was  the  best  thing  they  could  do.  The  boat  was  examined 
and  found  to  be  leaking,  but  not  very  badly,  and  when  her 
mast  had  been  unshipped  and  everything  had  been  made 
tight  and  right  on  board,  she  was  pulled  out  of  the  way 
of  tow-lines  and  boats,  and  made  fast  until  she  could  be 
sent  for  from  the  town. 

Mr.  Buller  and  Mr.  Podington  walked  back  toward  the 
town.  They  had  not  gone  very  far  when  they  met  a  party 
of  boys,  who,  upon  seeing  them,  burst  into  unseemly 
laughter. 

"Mister,"  cried  one  of  them,  <-'you  needn't  be  afraid  of 
tumbling  into  the  canal.  Why  don't  you  take  off  your  life- 
preserver  and  let  that  other  man  put  it  on  his  head?" 

The  two  friends  looked  at  each  other  and  could  not  help 
joining  in  the  laughter  of  the  boys. 

"By  George!  I  forgot  all  about  this,"  said  Podington, 
as  he  unfastened  the  cork  jacket.  "It  does  look  a  little 
super-timid  to  wear  a  life-preserver  just  because  one  hap 
pens  to  be  walking  by  the  side  of  a  canal." 

Mr.  Buller  tied  a  handkerchief  on  his  head,  and  Mr. 
Podington  rolled  up  his  life-preserver  and  carried  it  under 
his  arm.  Thus  they  reached  the  town,  where  Buller  bought. 
a  hat,  Podington  dispensed  with  his  bundle,  and  arrange 
ments  were  made  to  bring  back  the  boat, 


THE  BULLER-PODINGTON  COMPACT        169 

"Runaway  in  a  sailboat!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  canal 
boatmen  when  he  had  heard  about  the  accident.  "Upon  my 
word!  That  beats  anything  that  could  'happen  to  a  man!" 

"No,  it  doesn't,"  replied  Mr.  Buller,  quietly.  "I  have 
gone  to  the  bottom  in  a  foundered  road-wagon." 

The  man  looked  at  him  fixedly. 

"Was  you  ever  struck  in  the  mud  in  a  balloon?"  he  asked. 

"Not  yet,"  replied  Mr.  Buller. 

It  required  ten  days  to  put  Mr.  Buller's  sailboat  into 
proper  condition,  and  for  ten  days  Mr.  Podington  stayed 
with  his  friend,  and  enjoyed  his  visit  very  much.  They 
strolled  on  the  beach,  they  took  long  walks  in  the  back 
country,  they  fished  from  the  end  of  a  pier,  they  smoked, 
they  talked,  and  were  happy  and  content. 

"Thomas,"  said  Mr.  Podington,  on  the  last  evening  of 
his  stay,  "I  have  enjoyed  myself  very  much  since  I  have 
been  down  here,  and  now,  Thomas,  if  I  were  to  come  down 
again  next  summer,  would  you  mind — would  you  mind, 
not ' 

"I  would  not  mind  it  a  bit,"  replied  Buller,  promptly. 
"I'll  never  so  much  as  mention  it;  so  you  can  come  along 
without  a  thought  of  it.  And  since  you  have  alluded  to 
the  subject,  William,"  he  continued,  "I'd  like  very  much  to 
come  and  see  you  again;  you  know  my  visit  was  a  very 
short  one  this  year.  That  is  a  beautiful  country  you  live 
in.  Such  a  variety  of  scenery,  such  an  opportunity  for 
walks  and  rambles!  But,  William,  if  you  could  only  make 
up  your  mind  not  to " 

"Oh,  that  is  all  right!"  exclaimed  Podington.  "I  do  not 
need  to  make  up  my  mind.  You  come  to  my  house  and 
you  will  never  so  much  as  hear  of  it.  Here's  my  hand 
upon  it!" 

"And  here's  mine!"  said  Mr.  Buller. 

And  they  shook  hands  over  a  new  compact. 


COLONEL  STARBOTTLE  FOR 
THE  PLAINTIFF 

BY  BRET  HARTE  (1839-1902) 

IT  HAD  been  a  day  of  triumph  for  Colonel  Starbottle. 
First,  for  his  personality,  as  it  would  have  been  difficult 
to  separate  the  Colonel's  achievements  from  his  individ 
uality;  second,  for  his  oratorical  abilities  as  a  sympathetic 
pleader;  and  third,  for  his  functions  as  the  leading  counsel 
for  the  Eureka  Ditch  Company  versus  the  State  of  California. 
On  his  strictly  legal  performances  in  this  issue  I  prefer  not 
to  speak;  there  were  those  who  denied  them,  although  the 
jury  had  accepted  them  in  the  face  of  the  ruling  of  the  half- 
amused,  half-cynical  Judge  himself.  For  an  hour  they 
had  laughed  with  the  Colonel,  wept  with  him,  been  stirred 
to  personal  indignation  or  patriotic  exaltation  by  his  pas 
sionate  and  lofty  periods — what  else  could  they  do  than 
give  him  their  verdict?  If  it  was  alleged  by  some  that  the 
American  eagle,  Thomas  Jefferson,  and  the  Resolutions  of 
'98  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  contest  of  a  ditch 
company  over  a  doubtfully  worded  legislative  document; 
that  wholesale  abuse  of  the  State  Attorney  and  his  political 
motives  had  not  the  slightest  connection  with  the  legal  ques 
tion  raised — it  was,  nevertheless,  generally  accepted  that  the 
losing  party  would  have  been  only  too  glad  to  have  the 
Colonel  on  their  side.  And  Colonel  Starbottle  knew  this,  as, 

From  Harper's  Magazine,  March,  1901.  Republished  in  the 
volume,  Openings  in  the  Old  Trail  (1002),  by  Bret  Harte ;  copy 
right,  1902,  by  Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  the  authorized  pub 
lishers  of  Bret  Harte's  complete  works;  reprinted  by  their  per 
mission. 

170 


COLONEL  STARBOTTLE  FOR  THE  PLAINTIFF    171 

perspiring,  florid,  and  panting,  he  rebuttoned  the  lower 
buttons  of  his  blue  frock-coat,  which  had  become  loosed  in 
an  oratorical  spasm,  and  readjusted  his  old-fashioned,  spot 
less  shirt  frill  above  it  as  he  strutted  from  the  court-room 
amidst  the  hand-shakings  and  acclamations  of  his  friends. 

And  here  an  unprecedented  thing  occurred.  The  Colonel 
absolutely  declined  spirituous  refreshment  at  the  neighbor 
ing  Palmetto  Saloon,  and  declared  his  intention  of  proceed 
ing  directly  to  his  office  in  the  adjoining  square.  Neverthe 
less  the  Colonel  quitted  the  building  alone,  and  apparently 
unarmed  except  for  his  faithful  gold-headed  stick,  which 
hung  as  usual  from  his  forearm.  The  crowd  gazed  after 
him  with  undisguised  admiration  of  this  new  evidence  of  his 
pluck.  It  was  remembered  also  that  a  mysterious  note  had 
been  handed  to  him  at  the  conclusion  of  his  speech — evi 
dently  a  challenge  from  the  State  Attorney.  It  was  quite 
plain  that  the  Colonel — a  practised  duellist — was  hastening 
home  to  answer  it. 

But  herein  they  were  wrong.  The  note  was  in  a  female 
hand,  and  simply  requested  the  Colonel  to  accord  an  inter 
view  with  the  writer  at  the  Colonel's  office  as  soon  as  he  left 
the  court.  But  it  was  an  engagement  that  the  Colonel — as 
devoted  to  the  fair  sex  as  he  was  to  the  "code" — was  no  less 
prompt  in  accepting.  He  flicked  away  the  dust  from  his 
spotless  white  trousers  and  varnished  boots  with  his  hand 
kerchief,  and  settled  his  black  cravat  under  his  Byron  collar 
as  he  neared  his  office.  He  was  surprised,  however,  on  open 
ing  the  door  of  his  private  office  to  find  his  visitor  already 
there;  he  was  still  more  startled  to  find  her  somewhat  past 
middle  age  and  plainly  attired.  But  the  Colonel  was  brought 
up  in  a  school  of  Southern  politeness,  already  antique  in 
the  republic,  and  his  bow  of  courtesy  belonged  to  the  epoch 
of  his  shirt  frill  and  strapped  trousers.  No  one  could  have 
detected  his  disappointment  in  his  manner,  albeit  hi?  sen 
tences  were  short  and  incomplete.  But  the  Colonel's  col 
loquial  speech  was  apt  to  be  fragmentary  incoherencies  of 
his  larger  oratorical  utterances. 

"A  thousand  pardons — for — er — having  kept  a  lady  wait' 
ing — er!  But — er — congratulations  of  friends — and — er — 


172    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

courtesy  due  to  them — er — interfered  with — though  perhaps 
only  heightened — by  procrastination — pleasure  of — ha!" 
And  the  Colonel  completed  his  sentence  with  a  gallant  wave 
of  his  fat  but  white  and  well-kept  hand. 

"Yes!  I  came  to  see  you  along  o'  that  speech  of  yours* 
I  was  in  court.  When  I  heard  you  gettin'  it  off  on  that  jury, 
I  says  to  myself  that's  the  kind  o'  lawyer  /  want.  A  man 
that's  flowery  and  convincin'!  Just  the  man  to  take  up 
our  case." 

j  "Ah!  It's  a  matter  of  business,  I  see,"  said  the  Colonel, 
inwardly  relieved,  but  externally  careless.  "And — er — may 
I  ask  the  nature  of  the  case?" 

"Well!  it's  a  breach-o'-promise  suit,"  said  the  visitor, 
calmly. 

If  the  Colonel  had  been  surprised  before,  he  was  now 
really  startled,  and  with  an  added  horror  that  required  all 
his  politeness  to  conceal.  Breach-of-promise  cases  were  his 
peculiar  aversion.  He  had  always  held  them  to  be  a  kind 
of  litigation  which  could  have  been  obviated  by  the  prompt 
killing  of  the  masculine  offender — in  which  case  he  would 
have  gladly  defended  the  killer.  But  a  suit  for  damages! — 
damages! — with  the  reading  of  love-letters  before  a  hilarious 
jury  and  court,  was  against  all  his  instincts.  His  chivalry 
was  outraged;  his  sense  of  humor  was  small — and  in  the 
course  of  his  career  he  had  lost  one  or  two  important  cases 
through  an  unexpected  development  of  this  quality  in  a 
jury. 

The  woman  had  evidently  noticed  his  hesitation,  but  mis 
took  its  cause.  "It  ain't  me — but  my  darter." 

The  Colonel  recovered  his  politeness.  "Ah!  I  am  re 
lieved,  my  dear  madam!  I  could  hardly  conceive  a  man 
ignorant  enough  to — er — er — throw  away  such  evident  good 
fortune — or  base  enough  to  deceive  the  trustfulness  of 
womanhood — matured  and  experienced  only  in  the  chivalry 
of  our  sex,  ha!" 

The  woman  smiled  grimly.  "Yes! — it's  my  darter,  Zaidee 
Hooker — so  ye  might  spare  some  of  them  pretty  speeches 
for  her — before  the  jury." 

The  Colonel  winced  slightly  before  this  doubtful  prospect, 


COLONEL  STARBOTTLE  FOR  THE  PLAINTIFF    173 

but  smiled.  "Ha!  Yes! — certainly — the  jury.  But — er 
— my  dear  lady,  need  we  go  as  far  as  -that?  Cannot  this 
•affair  be  settled — er — out  of  court?  Could  not  this — er — 
individual — be  admonished — told  that  he  must  give  satisfac 
tion — personal  satisfaction — for  his  dastardly  conduct — to 
— er — near  relative — or  even  valued  personal  friend?  The 
— er — arrangements  necessary  for  that  purpose  I  myself 
would  undertake." 

He  was  quite  sincere;  indeed,  his  small  black  eyes  shone 
with  that  fire  which  a  pretty  woman  or  an  "affair  of  honor" 
could  alone  kindle.  The  visitor  stared  vacantly  at  Mm,  and 
said,  slowly: 

"And  what  good  is  that  goin'  to  do  us?" 

"Compel  him  to — er — perform  his  promise,"  said  tfae 
Colonel,  leaning  back  in  his  chair. 

"Ketch  him  doin'  it!"  said  the  woman,  scornfully.  "No 
— that  ain't  wot  we're  after.  We  must  make  him  pay! 
Damages — and  nothin'  short  o'  that." 

The  Colonel  bit  his  lip.  "I  suppose,"  he  said,  gloomily, 
"you  have  documentary  evidence — written  .promises  and 
protestations — er — er — love-letters,  in  fact?" 

"No — nary  a  letter!  Ye  see,  that's  jest  it — and  that's 
where  you  come  in.  You've  got  to  convince  that  jury  your 
self.  You've  got  to  show  what  it  is — tell  the  whole  story 
your  own  way.  Lord!  to  a  man  like  you  that's  nothin'." 

Startling  at  this  admission  might  have  been  to  any  other 
lawyer,  Starbottle  was  absolutely  relieved  by  it.  The  ab 
sence  of  any  mirth-provoking  correspondence,  and  the  ap 
peal  solely  to  his  own  powers  of  persuasion,  actually  struck 
his  fancy.  He  lightly  put  aside  the  compliment  with  a  wave 
of  his  white  hand. 

"Of  course,"  said  the  Colonel,  confidently,  "there  is 
strongly  presumptive  and  corroborative  evidence?  Perhaps 
you  can  give  me — er — a  brief  outline  of  the  affair?" 

"Zaidee  kin  do  that  straight  enough,  I  reckon,"  said  the 
woman;  "what  I  want  to  know  first  is,  kin  you  take  the 
case?" 

The  Colonel  did  not  hesitate;  his  curiosity  was  piqued. 
"I  certainly  can.  I  have  no  doubt  your  daughter  will  put 


174    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

me  in  possession  of  sufficient  facts  and  details — to  constitute 
what  we  call — er — a  brief." 

"She  kin  be  brief  enough — or  long  enough — for  the  mat 
ter  of  that,"  said  the  woman,  rising.  The  Colonel  accepted 
this  implied  witticism  with  a  smile. 

"And  when  may  I  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her?"  he 
asked,  politely. 

"Well,  I  reckon  as  soon  as  I  can  trot  out  and  call  her. 
She's  just  outside,  meanderin'  in  the  road — kinder  shy,  ye 
know,  at  first." 

She  walked  to  the  door.  The  astounded  Colonel  never 
theless  gallantly  accompanied  her  as  she  stepped  out  into 
the  street  and  called,  shrilly,  "You  Zaidee!" 

A  young  girl  here  apparently  detached  herself  from  a  tree 
and  the  ostentatious  perusal  of  an  old  election  poster,  and 
sauntered  down  towards  the  office  door.  Like  her  mother, 
die  was  plainly  dressed;  unlike  her,  she  had  a  pale,  rather 
refined  face,  with  a  demure  mouth  and  downcast  eyes.  This 
was  all  the  Colonel  saw  as  he  bowed  profoundly  and  led  the 
way  into  his  office,  for  she  accepted  his  salutations  without 
lifting  her  head.  He  helped  her  gallantly  to  a  chair,  on 
•which  she  seated  herself  sideways,  somewhat  ceremoniously, 
with  her  eyes  following  the  point  of  her  parasol  as  she  traced 
a  pattern  on  the  carpet.  A  second  chair  offered  to  the 
mother  that  lady,  however,  declined.  "I  reckon  to  leave  you 
and  Zaidee  together  to  talk  it  out,"  she  said;  turning  to  her 
daughter,  she  added,  "Jest  you  tell  him  all,  Zaidee,"  and 
before  the  Colonel  could  rise  again,  disappeared  from  the 
room.  In  spite  of  his  professional  experience,  Starbottle 
was  for  a  moment  embarrassed.  The  young  girl,  however, 
broke  the  silence  without  looking  up. 

"Adoniram  K.  Hotchkiss,"  she  began,  in  a  monotonous 
voice,  as  if  it  were  a  recitation  addressed  to  the  public,  "first 
began  to  take  notice  of  me  a  year  ago.  Arter  that — off 
and  on " 

"One  moment,"  interrupted  the  astounded  Colonel;  "do 
you  mean  Hotchkiss  the  President  of  the  Ditch  Company?" 
He  had  recognized  the  name  of  a  prominent  citizen — a  rigid 
nscetic,  tactiturn,  middle-aged  man — a  deacon — and  more 


COLONEL  STARBOTTLE  FOR  THE  PLAINTIFF    175 

than  that,  the  head  of  the  company  he  had  just  defended. 
It  seemed  inconceivable. 

"That's  him,"  she  continued,  with  eyes  still  fixed  on  the 
parasol  and  without  changing  her  monotonous  tone — "off 
and  on  ever  since.  Most  of  the  time  at  the  Free- Will  Bap 
tist  church — at  morning  service,  prayer-meetings,  and  such. 
And  at  home — outside — er — in  the  road." 

"Is  it  this  gentleman — Mr.  Adoniram  K.  Hotchkiss — who 
— er — promised  marriage?"  stammered  the  Colonel. 

"Yes." 

The  Colonel  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair.  "Most  extraor 
dinary!  for — you  see — my  dear  young  lady — this  becomes 
— a — er — most  delicate  affair." 

"That's  what  maw  said,"  returned  the  young  woman, 
simply,  yet  with  the  faintest  smile  playing  around  her  de 
mure  lips  and  downcast  cheek. 

"I  mean,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  a  pained  yet  courteous 
smile,  "that  this — er — gentleman — is  in  fact — er — one  of  my 
clients." 

"That's  what  maw  said,  too,  and  of  course  your  knowing 
him  will  make  it  all  the  easier  for  you,"  said  the  young 
woman. 

A  slight  flush  crossed  the  Colonel's  cheek  as  he  re 
turned  quickly  and  a  little  stiffly,  "On  the  contrary — er — 
it  may  make  it  impossible  for  me  to — er — act  in  this  mat 
ter." 

The  girl  lifted  her  eyes.  The  Colonel  held  his  breath  as 
the  long  lashes  were  raised  to  his  level.  Even  to  an  ordi 
nary  observer  that  sudden  revelation  of  her  eyes  seemed  to 
transform  her  face  with  subtle  witchery.  They  were  large, 
brown,  and  soft,  yet  filled  with  'an  extraordinary  penetration 
and  prescience.  They  were  the  eyes  of  an  experienced  woman 
of  thirty  fixed  in  the  face  of  a  child.  What  else  the  Colonel 
saw  there  Heaven  only  knows!  He  felt  his  inmost  secrets 
plucked  from  him — his  whole  soul  laid  bare — his  vanity, 
belligerency,  gallantry — even  his  medieval  chivalry,  pene 
trated,  and  yet  illuminated,  in  that  single  glance.  And  when 
the  eyelids  fell  again,  he  felt  that  a  greater  part  of  himself 
had  been  swallowed  up  in  them. 


176    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  hurriedly.  "I  mean — this 
matter  may  be  arranged — er — amicably.  My  interest  with 
•—and  as  you  wisely  say — my — er — knowledge  of  my  client 
— er — Mr.  Hotchkiss — may  affect — a  compromise." 

"And  damages,"  said  the  young  girl,  readdressing  her 
parasol,  as  if  she  had  never  looked  up. 

The  Colonel  winced.  "And — er — undoubtedly  compen 
sation — if  you  do  not  press  a  fulfilment  of  the  promise. 
Unless,"  he  said,  with  an  attempted  return  to  his  former 
easy  gallantry,  which,  however,  the  recollection  of  her 
eyes  made  difficult,  "it  is  a  question  of — er — the  affec 
tions?" 

"Which?"  said  his  fair  client,  softly. 

"If  you  still  love  him?"  explained  the  Colonel,  actually 
blushing. 

Zaidee  again  looked  up;  again  taking  the  Colonel's  breath 
away  with  eyes  that  expressed  not  only  the  fullest  perception 
of  what  he  had  said,  but  of  what  he  thought  and  had  not 
said,  and  with  an  added  subtle  suggestion  of  what  he  might 
have  thought.  "That's  tellin'/'  she  said,  dropping  her  long 
lashes  again.  The  Colonel  laughed  vacantly.  Then  feeling 
himself  growing  imbecile,  he  forced  an  equally  weak  grav 
ity.  "Pardon  me — I  understand  there  are  no  letters;  may 
I  know  the  way  in  which  he  formulated  his  declaration  and 
promises?" 

"Hymn-books,"  said  the  girl,  briefly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  mystified  lawyer. 

"Hymn-books — marked  words  in  them  with  pencil — and 
passed  'em  on  to  me,"  repeated  Zaidee.  "Like  'love,'  'dear,' 
'precious,'  'sweet,'  and  'blessed,'  "  she  added,  accenting  each 
word  with  a  push  of  her  parasol  on  the  carpet.  "Sometimes 
a  whole  line  outer  Tate  and  Brady — and  Solomon's  Song, 
you  know,  and  sich." 

"I  believe,"  said  the  Colonel,  loftily,  "that  the — er— 
phrases  of  sacred  psalmody  lend  themselves  to  the  language 
of  the  affections.  But  in  regard  to  the  distinct  promise  of 
marriage — was  there — er — no  other  expression?" 

"Marriage  Service  in  the  prayer-book — lines  and  words 
outer  that — all  marked,"  said  Zaidee.  The  Colonel  nodded 


COLONEL  STARBOTTLE  FOR  THE  PLAINTIFF     177 

naturally  and  approvingly.  "Very  good.  Were  others  cog* 
nizant  of  this?  Were  there  any  witnesses?" 

"Of  course  not,"  said  the  girl.  "Only  me  and  him.  It 
was  generally  at  church-time — or  prayer-meeting.  Once,  in 
passing  the  plate,  he  slipped  one  o'  them  peppermint  lozenges 
with  the  letters  stamped  on  it  'I  love  you'  for  me  to  take." 

The  Colonel  coughed  slightly.  "And  you  have  the 
lozenge?" 

"I  ate  it,"  said  the  girl,  simply. 

"Ah,"  said  the  Colonel.  After  a  pause  he  added,  deli 
cately:  "But  were  these  attentions — er — confined  to — er — 
sacred  precincts?  Did  he  meet  you  elsewhere?" 

"Useter  pass  our  house  on  the  road,"  returned  the 
girl,  dropping  into  her  monotonous  recital,  "and  useter 
signal." 

"Ah,  signal?"  repeated  the  Colonel,  approvingly. 

"Yes!  He'd  say  'Kerrow,'  and  I'd  say  'Kerree.'  Suthing 
like  a  bird,  you  know." 

Indeed,  as  she  lifted  her  voice  in  imitation  of  the  call  the 
Colonel  thought  it  certainly  very  sweet  and  birdlike.  At 
least  as  she  gave  it.  With  his  remembrance  of  the  grim 
deacon  he  had  doubts  as  to  the  melodiousness  of  his  utter 
ance.  He  gravely  made  her  repeat  it. 

"And  after  that  signal?"  he  added,  suggestively. 

"He'd  pass  on,"  said  the  girl. 

The  Colonel  coughed  slightly,  and  tapped  his  desk  with 
his  pen-holder. 

"Were  there  any  endearments — er — caresses — er — such  as 
taking  your  hand — er — clasping  your  waist?"  he  suggested, 
with  a  gallant  yet  respectful  sweep  of  his  white  hand  and 
bowing  of  his  head; — "er — slight  pressure  of  your  fingers  in 
the  changes  of  a  dance — I  mean,"  he  corrected  himself,  with 
an  apologetic  cough — "in  the  passing  of  the  plate?" 

"No; — he  was  not  what  you'd  call  'fond,'  "  returned  the 
girl. 

"Ah!  Adoniram  K.  Hotchkiss  was  not  'fond'  in  the  ordi 
nary  acceptance  of  the  word,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  pro 
fessional  gravity. 

She  lifted  her  disturbing  eyes,  and  again  absorbed  his  in 


'178    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

her  own.  She  also  said  "Yes,"  although  her  eyes  in  their 
mysterious  prescience  of  all  he  was  thinking  disclaimed  the 
necessity  of  any  answer  at  all.  He  smiled  vacantly.  There 
was  a  long  pause.  On  which  she  slowly  disengaged  her  para 
sol  from  the  carpet  pattern  and  stood  up. 

"I  reckon  that's  about  all,"  she  said. 

"Er — yes — but  one  moment,"  said  the  Colonel,  vaguely. 
He  would  have  liked  to  keep  her  longer,  but  with  her  strange 
premonition  of  him  he  felt  powerless  to  detain  her,  or  ex 
plain  his  reason  for  doing  so.  He  instinctively  knew  she 
had  told  him  all;  his  professional  judgment  told  him  that  a 
more  hopeless  case  had  never  come  to  his  knowledge.  Yet 
he  was  not  daunted,  only  embarrassed.  "No  matter,"  he 
said,  vaguely.  "Of  course  I  shall  have  to  consult  with  you 
again."  Her  eyes  again  answered  that  she  expected  he 
would,  but  she  added,  simply,  "When?" 

"In  the  course  of  a  day  or  two,"  said  the  Colonel,  quickly. 
"I  will  send  you  word."  She  turned  to  go.  In  his  eagerness 
to  open  the  door  for  her  he  upset  his  chair,  and  with  some 
confusion,  that  was  actually  youthful,  he  almost  impeded 
her  movements  in  the  hall,  and  knocked  his  broad-brimmed 
Panama  hat  from  his  bowing  hand  in  a  final  gallant  sweep. 
Yet  as  her  small,  trim,  youthful  figure,  with  its  simple  Leg 
horn  straw  hat  confined  by  a  blue  bow  under  her  round  chin, 
passed  away  before  him,  she  looked  more  like  a  child  than 
ever. 

The  Colonel  spent  that  afternoon  in  making  diplomatic 
inquiries.  He  found  his  youthful  client,  was  the  daughter  of 
a  widow  who  had  a  small  ranch  on  the  cross-roads,  near 
the  new  Free-Will  Baptist  church — the  evident  theatre  of 
this  pastoral.  They  led  a  secluded  life;  the  girl  being  little 
known  in  the  town,  and  her  beauty  and  fascination  appar 
ently  not  yet  being  a  recognized  fact.  The  Colonel  felt  a 
pleasurable  relief  at  this,  and  a  general  satisfaction  he  could 
not  account  for.  His  few  inquiries  concerning  Mr.  Hotch- 
kiss  only  confirmed  his  own  impressions  of  the  alleged  lover 
— a  serious-minded,  practically  abstracted  man — abstentive 
of  youthful  society,  and  the  last  man  apparently  capable  of 
levity  of  the  affections  or  serious  flirtation.  The  Colonel 


COLONEL  STARBOTTLE  FOR  THE  PLAINTIFF    179 

was  mystified — but  determined  of  purpose — whatever  that 
purpose  might  have  been. 

The  next  day  he  was  at  his  office  at  the  same  hour.  He 
was  alone — as  usual — the  Colonel's  office  really  being  his 
private  lodgings,  disposed  in  connecting  rooms,  a  single 
apartment  reserved  for  consultation.  He  had  no  clerk;  his 
papers  and  briefs  being  taken  by  his  faithful  body-servant 
and  ex-slave  "Jim"  to  another  firm  who  did  his  office-work 
since  the  death  of  Major  Stryker — the  Colonel's  only  law 
partner,  who  fell  in  a  duel  some  years  previous.  With  a  fine 
constancy  the  Colonel  still  retained  his  partner's  name  on  his 
door-plate — and,  it  was  alleged  by  the  superstitious,  kept  a 
certain  invincibility  also  through  the  manes  of  that  lamented 
and  somewhat  feared  man. 

The  Colonel  consulted  his  watch,  whose  heavy  gold  case 
still  showed  the  marks  of  a  providential  interference  with 
a  bullet  destined  for  its  owner,  and  replaced  it  with  some 
difficulty  and  shortness  of  breath  in  his  fob.  At  the  same 
moment  he  heard  a  step  in  the  passage,  and  the  door  opened 
to  Adoniram  K.  Hotchkiss.  The  Colonel  was  impressed;  he 
had  a  duellist's  respect  for  punctuality. 

The  man  entered  with  a  nod  and  the  expectant,  inquiring 
look  of  a  busy  man.  As  his  feet  crossed  that  sacred  threshold 
the  Colonel  became  all  courtesy;  he  placed  a  chair  for  his 
visitor,  and  took  his  hat  from  his  half-reluctant  hand.  He 
then  opened  a  cupboard  and  brought  out  a  bottle  of  whiskey 
and  two  glasses. 

"A — er — slight  refreshment,  Mr.  Hotchkiss,"  he  sug 
gested,  politely.  "I  never  drink,"  replied  Hotchkiss,  with 
tlhe  severe  attitude  of  a  total  abstainer.  "Ah — er — not  the 
finest  bourbon  whiskey,  selected  by  a  Kenturky  friend? 
No?  Pardon  me!  A  cigar,  then — the  mildest  Havana." 

"I  do  not  use  tobacco  nor  alcohol  in  any  form,"  repeated 
Hotchkiss,  ascetioally.  "I  have  no  foolish  weaknesses." 

The  Colonel's  moist,  beady  eyes  swept  silently  over  his 
client's  sallow  face.  He  leaned  back  comfortably  in  his 
chair,  and  half  closing  his  eyes  as  in  dreamy  reminiscence, 
said,  slowly:  "Your  reply,  Mr.  Hotchkiss,  reminds  me  of— » 
of — sing'lar  circumstances  that — er — occurred,  in  point  oJ 


i8o    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

fact — at  the  St.  Charles  Hotel,  New  Orleans.  Pinkey  Horn- 
blower — personal  friend — invited  Senator  Doolittle  to  join 
him  in  social  glass.  Received,  sing'larly  enough,  reply  simi 
lar  to  yours.  'Don't  drink  nor  smoke?'  said  Pinkey.  'Gad, 
sir,  you  must  be  mighty  sweet  on  the  ladies.'  Ha!"  The 
Colonel  paused  long  enough  to  allow  the  faint  flush  to  pass 
from  Hotchkiss's  cheek,  and  went  on,  half  closing  his  eyes: 
"  'I  allow  no  man,  sir,  to  discuss  my  personal  habits,'  said 
Doolittle,  over  his  shirt  collar.  'Then  I  reckon  shootin'  must 
be  one  of  those  habits,'  said  Pinkey,  coolly.  Both  men  drove 
out  on  the  Shell  Road  back  of  cemetery  next  morning. 
Pinkey  put  bullet  at  twelve  paces  through  Doolittle's  tem 
ple.  Poor  Doo  never  spoke  again.  Left  three  wives  and 
seven  children,  they  say — two  of  'em  black." 

"I  got  a  note  from  you  this  morning,"  said  Hotchkiss, 
with  badly  concealed  impatience.  "I  suppose  in  reference 
to  our  case.  You  have  taken  judgment,  I  believe."  The 
Colonel,  without  replying,  slowly  filled  a  glass  of  whiskey 
and  water.  For  a  moment  he  held  it  dreamily  before  him, 
as  if  still  engaged  in  gentle  reminiscences  called  up  by  the 
act.  Then  tossing  it  off,  he  wiped  his  lips  with  a  large  white 
handkerchief,  and  leaning  back  comfortably  in  his  chair, 
said,  witih  a  wave  of  his  hand,  "The  interview  I  requested, 
Mr.  Hotchkiss,  concerns  a  subject — which  I  may  say  is — 
er — er — at  present  not  of  a  public  or  business  nature — 
although  later  it  might  become — er — er — both.  It  is  an 
affair  of  some — er — delicacy." 

The  Colonel  paused,  and  Mr.  Hotchkiss  regarded  him 
with  increased  impatience.  The  Colonel,  however,  con 
tinued,  with  unchanged  deliberation:  "It  concerns — er — a 
young  lady — a  beautiful,  high-souled  creature,  sir,  who, 
apart  from  her  personal  loveliness — er — er — I  may  say  is  of 
one  of  the  first  families  of  Missouri,  and — er — not — re 
motely  connected  by  marriage  with  one  of — er — er — my 
boyhood's  dearest  friends."  The  latter,  I  grieve  to  say, 
was  a  pure  invention  of  the  Colonel's — an  oratorical  addi 
tion  to  the  scanty  information  he  had  obtained  the  previous 
day.  "The  young  lady,"  he  continued,  blandly,  "enjoys 
the  further  distinction  of  being  the  object  of  such  attention 


COLONEL  STARBOTTLE  FOR  THE  PLAINTIFF     181 

from  you  as  would  make  this  interview — really — a  con 
fidential  matter — er — er — among  friends  and — er — er — re 
lations  in  present  and  future.  I  need  not  say  that  the 
lady  I  refer  to  is  Miss  Zaidee  Juno  Hooker,  only  daughter 
of  Almira  Ann  Hooker,  relict  of  Jefferson  Brown  Hooker, 
formerly  of  Boone  County,  Kentucky,  and  latterly  of — 
er — Pike  County,  Missouri." 

The  sallow,  ascetic  hue  of  Mr.  Hotchkiss's  face  had 
passed  through  a  livid  and  then  a  greenish  shade,  and 
finally  settled  into  a  sullen  red.  "What's  all  this  about?" 
he  demanded,  roughly.  The  least  touch  of  belligerent  fire 
came  into  Starbottle's  eye,  but  his  bland  courtesy  did  not 
change.  "I  believe,"  he  said,  politely,  "I  have  made  my 
self  clear  as  between — er — gentlemen,  though  perhaps  not 
as  clear  as  I  should  to — er — er — jury." 

Mr.  Hotchkiss  was  apparently  struck  with  some  signifi 
cance  in  the  lawyer's  reply.  "I  don't  know,"  he  said,  in  a 
lower  and  more  cautious  voice,  "what  you  mean  by  what 
you  call  'my  attentions'  to — any  one — or  how  it  concerns 
you.  I  have  not  exhausted  half  a  dozen  words  with — the 
person  you  name — have  never  written  her  a  line — nor  even 
called  at  her  house."  He  rose  with  an  assumption  of  ease, 
pulled  down  his  waistcoat,  buttoned  his  coat,  and  took  up 
his  hat.  The  Colonel  did  not  move.  "I  believe  I  have 
already  indicated  my  meaning  in  what  I  have  called  'your 
attentions,'  "  said  the  Colonel,  blandly,  "and  given  you  my 

'concern'  for  speaking  as — er er  mutual  friend.  As  to 

your  statement  of  your  relations  with  Miss  Hooker,  I  may 
state  that  it  is  fully  corroborated  by  the  statement  of  the 
young  lady  herself  in  this  very  office  yesterday." 

"Then  what  does  this  impertinent  nonsense  mean?  Why 
am  I  summoned  here?"  said  Hotchkiss,  furiously. 

"Because,"  said  the  Colonel,  deliberately,  "that  state 
ment  is  infamously — yes,  damnably  to  your  discredit, 
sir!" 

Mr.  Hotchkiss  was  here  seized  by  one  or  those  important 
and  inconsistent  rages  which  occasionally  betray  the  habit 
ually  cautious  and  timid  man.  He  caught  up  the  Colonel's 
stick,  which  was  lying  on  the  table.  At  the  same  momeii; 


x82    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

the  Colonel,  without  any  apparent  effort,  grasped  it  by  the 
handle.  To  Mr.  Hotchkiss's  astonishment,  the  stick  sep- 
aparated  in  two  pieces,  leaving  the  handle  and  about  two 
feet  of  narrow  glittering  steel  in  the  Colonel's  hand.  The 
man  recoiled,  dropping  the  useless  fragment.  The  Colonel 
picked  it  up,  fitting  the  shining  blade  in  it,  clicked  the 
spring,  and  then  rising,  with  a  face  of  courtesy  yet  of  un 
mistakably  genuine  pain,  and  with  even  a  slight  tremor 
in  his  voice,  said,  gravely: 

"Mr.  Hotchkiss,  I  owe  you  a  thousand  apologies,  sir, 
that — er — a  weapon  should  be  drawn  by  me— even  through 
your  own  inadvertence — under  the  sacred  protection  of  my 
roof,  and  upon  an  unarmed  man.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir, 
and  I  even  withdraw  the  expressions  which  provoked  that 
inadvertence.  Nor  does  this  apology  prevent  you  from 
holding  me  responsible — personally  responsible — elsewhere 
for  an  indiscretion  committed  in  behalf  of  a  lady — my — 
er — client." 

"Your  client?  Do  you  mean  you  have  taken  her  case? 
You,  the  counsel  for  the  Ditch  Company?"  said  Mr.  Hotch 
kiss,  in  trembling  indignation. 

"Having  won  your  case,  sir,"  said  the  Colonel,  coolly, 
"the — er — usages  of  advocacy  do  not  prevent  me  from  es 
pousing  the  cause  of  the  weak  and  unprotected." 

"We  shall  see,  sir,"  said  Hotchkiss,  grasping  the  handle 
of  the  door  and  backing  into  the  passage.  "There  are  other 
lawyers  who — " 

"Permit  me  to  see  you  out,"  interrupted  the  Colonel, 
rising  politely. 

" — will  be  ready  to  resist  the  attacks  of  blackmail,"  con 
tinued  Hotchkiss,  retreating  along  the  passage. 

"And  then  you  will  be  able  to  repeat  your  remarks  to 
me  in  the  street,"  continued  the  Colonel,  bowing,  as  he 
persisted  in  following  his  visitor  to  the  door. 

But  here  Mr.  Hotchkiss  quickly  slammed  it  behind  him, 
and  hurried  away.  The  Colonel  returned  to  his  office,  and 
sitting  down,  took  a  sheet  of  letter  paper  bearing  the  in 
scription  "Starbottle  and  Stryker,  Attorneys  and  Counsel 
lors,"  and  wrote  the  following  lines: 


COLONEL  STARBOTTLE  FOR  THE  PLAINTIFF    183 

Hooker  versus  Hotchkiss. 

DEAR  MADAM, — Having  had  a  visit  from  the  defendant  in 
above,  we  should  be  pleased  to  have  an  interview  with  you  at 
2  P.M.  to-morrow.  Your  obedient  servants, 

STARBOTTLE  AND  STRYKER. 

This  he  sealed  and  despatched  by  his  trusted  servant 
Jim,  and  then  devoted  a  few  moments  to  reflection.  It 
was  tiie  custom  of  the  Colonel  to  act  first,  and  justify  the 
action  by  reason  afterwards. 

He  knew  that  Hotchkiss  would  at  once  lay  the  matter 
before  rival  counsel.  He  knew  that  they  would  advise  him 
that  Miss  Hooker  had  "no  case" — that  she  would  be  non 
suited  on  her  own  evidence,  and  he  ought  not  to  com 
promise,  but  be  ready  to  stand  trial.  He  believed,  how 
ever,  that  Hotchkiss  feared  that  exposure,  and  although  his 
own  instincts  had  been  at  first  against  that  remedy,  he  was 
now  instinctively  in  favor  of  it.  He  remembered  his  own 
power  with  a  jury;  his  vanity  and  his  chivalry  alike  ap 
proved  of  this  heroic  method;  he  was  bound  by  the  prosaic 
facts — he  had  his  own  theory  of  the  case,  which  no  mere 
evidence  could  gainsay.  In  fact,  Mrs.  Hooker's  own  words 
that  "he  was  to  tell  the  story  in  his  own  way"  actually 
appeared  to  him  an  inspiration  and  a  prophecy. 

Perhaps  there  was  something  else,  due  possibly  to  the 
lady's  wonderful  eyes,  of  which  he  had  thought  much.  Yet 
it  was  not  her  simplicity  that  affected  him  solely;  on  the 
contrary,  it  was  her  apparent  intelligent  reading  of  the 
character  of  her  recreant  lover — and  of  his  own!  Of  all  the 
Colonel's  previous  "light"  or  "serious"  loves  none  had  ever 
before  flattered  him  in  that  way.  And  it  was  this,  com 
bined  with  the  respect  which  he  had  held  for  their  profes 
sional  relations,  that  precluded  his  having  a  more  familiar 
knowledge  of  his  client,  through  serious  questioning,  or  play 
ful  gallantry.  I  am  not  sure  it  was  not  part  of  the  charm 
to  have  a  rustic  femme  incomprise  as  a  client. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  respect  with  which  he  greeted 
her  as  she  entered  his  office  the  next  day.  He  even  affected 
not  to  notice  that  she  had  put  on  her  best  clothes,  and  he 
made  no  doubt  appeared  as  when  she  had  first  attracted 


184    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

the  mature  yet  faithless  attentions  of  Deacon  Hotchkiss 
at  church.  A  white  virginal  muslin  was  belted  around  her 
slim  figure  by  a  blue  ribbon,  and  her  Leghorn  hat  was  drawn 
around  her  oval  cheek  by  a  bow  of  the  same  color.  She  had 
a  Southern  girl's  narrow  feet,  encased  in  white  stockings  and 
kid  slippers,  which  were  crossed  primly  before  her  as  she  sat 
in  a  chair,  supporting  her  arm  by  her  faithful  parasol  plant 
ed  firmly  on  the  floor.  A  faint  odor  of  southernwood  ex 
haled  from  her,  and,  oddly  enough,  stirred  the  Colonel  with 
a  far-off  recollection  of  a  pine-shaded  Sunday  school  on  a 
Georgia  hillside  and  of  his  first  love,  aged  ten,  in  a  short, 
starched  frock.  Possibly  it  was  the  same  recollection  that 
revived  something  of  the  awkwardness  he  had  felt  then. 

He,  however,  smiled  vaguely  and,  sitting  down,  coughed 
slightly,  and  placed  his  fingertips  together.  "I  have  had  an 
— er — interview  with  Mr.  Hotchkiss,  but — I — er — regret  to 
say  there  seems  to  be  no  prospect  of — er — compromise."  He 
paused,  and  to  his  surprise  her  listless  "company"  face  lit 
up  with  an  adorable  smile.  "Of  course! — ketch  him!"  she 
said.  "Was  he  mad  when  you  told  him?"  She  put  her 
knees  comfortably  together  and  leaned  forward  for  a  reply. 

For  all  that,  wild  horses  could  not  have  torn  from  the 
Colonel  a  word  about  Hotchkiss's  anger.  "He  expressed  his 
intention  of  employing  counsel — and  defending  a  suit,"  re 
turned  the  Colonel,  affably  basking  in  her  smile.  She 
dragged  her  chair  nearer  his  desk.  "Then  you'll  fight  him 
tooth  and  nail?"  she  said  eagerly;  "you'll  show  him  up? 
You'll  tell  the  whole  story  your  own  way?  You'll  give  him 
fits? — and  you'll  make  him  pay?  Sure?"  she  went  on, 
breathlessly. 

"I — er — will,"  said  the  Colonel,  almost  as  breathlessly. 

She  caught  his  fat  white  hand,  which  was  lying  on  the 
table,  between  her  own  and  lifted  it  to  her  lips.  He  felt 
her  soft  young  fingers  even  through  the  lisle-thread  gloves 
that  encased  them  and  the  warm  moisture  of  her  lips  upon 
his  skin.  He  felt  himself  flushing — but  was  unable  to 
break  the  silence  or  change  his  position.  The  next  moment 
she  had  scuttled  back  with  her  chair  to  her  old  position. 

"I — er — certainly    shall   do    my   best,"    stammered    the 


COLONEL  STARBOTTLE  FOR  THE  PLAINTIFF    185 

Colonel,  in  an  attempt  to  recover  his  dignity  and  composure. 

"That's  enough!  You'll  do  it,"  said  'the  girl,  enthusias 
tically.  "Lordy!  Just  you  talk  for  me  as,  ye,  did  for  his 
old  Ditch  Company,  and  you'll  fetch  it — every  time!  Why, 
•when  you  made  that  jury  sit  up  the  other  day — when  you 
got  that  off  about  the  Merrikan  flag  waving  equally  over 
the  rights  of  honest  citizens  banded  together  in  peaceful 
commercial  pursuits,  as  well  as  over  the  fortress  of  official 
proflig — " 

"Oligarchy,"  murmured  the  Colonel,  courteously. 

"Oligarchy,"  repeated  the  girl,  quickly,  "my  breath  was 
just  took  away.  I  said  to  maw,  'Ain't  he  too  sweet  for 
anything!'  I  did,  honest  Injin!  And  when  you  rolled  it 
all  off  at  the  end — never  missing  a  word — (you  didn't  need 
to  mark  'em  in  a  lesson-book,  but  had  'em  all  ready  on 

your  tongue) ,  and  walked  out Well !  I  didn't  know  you 

nor  the  Ditch  Company  from  Adam,  but  I  could  have  just 
run  over  and  kissed  you  there  before  the  whole  court!" 

She  laughed,  with  her  face  glowing,  although  her  strange 
eyes  were  cast  down.  Alack!  the  Colonel's  face  was  equally 
flushed,  and  his  own  beady  eyes  were  on  his  desk.  To  any 
other  woman  he  would  have  voiced  the  banal  gallantry  that 
he  should  now,  himself,  look  forward  to  that  reward,  but 
the  words  never  reached  his  lips.  He  laughed,  coughed 
slightly,  and  when  he  looked  up  again  she  had  fallen  into 
the  same  attitude  as  on  her  first  visit,  with  her  parasol  point 
on  the  floor. 

"I  must  ask  you  to — er — direct  your  memory — to — er — 
another  point;  the  breaking  off  of  the — er — er — er — en 
gagement.  Did  he — er — give  any  reason  for  it?  Or  show 
any  cause?" 

"No;  he  never  said  anything,"  returned  the  girl. 

"Not  in  his  usual  way? — er — no  reproaches  out  of  the 
hymn-book? — or  the  sacred  writings?" 

"No;  he  just  quit." 

"Er — ceased  his  attentions,"  said  the  Colonel,  gravely. 
"And  naturally  you — er — were  not  conscious  of  any  cause 
for  his  doing  so."  The  girl  raised  her  wonderful  eyes  so 
suddenly  and  so  penetratingly  without  reply  hi  any  other 


i86    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

way  that  the  Colonel  could  only  hurriedly  say:  "I  see! 
None,  of  course!" 

At  which  she  rose,  the  Colonel  rising  also.  "We — shall 
begin  proceedings  at  once.  I  must,  however,  caution  you 
to  answer  no  questions  nor  say  anything  about  this  case 
to  any  one  until  you  are  in  court." 

She  answered  his  request  with  another  intelligent  look 
and  a  nod.  He  accompanied  her  to  the  door.  As  he  took 
her  proffered  hand  he  raised  the  lisle-thread  fingers  to  his 
lips  with  old-fashioned  gallantry.  As  if  that  act  had  con 
doned  for  his  first  omissions  and  awkwardness,  he  became 
his  old-fashioned  self  again,  buttoned  his  coat,  pulled  out 
his  shirt  frill,  and  strutted  back  to  his  desk. 

A  day  or  two  later  it  was  known  throughout  the  town  that 
Zaidee  Hooker  had  sued  Adoniram  Hotchkiss  for  breach 
6f  promise,  and  that  the  damages  were  laid  at  five  thousand 
dollars.  As  in  those  bucolic  days  the  Western  press  was 
Under  the  secure  censorship  of  a  revolver,  a  cautious  tone  of 
criticism  prevailed,  and  any  gossip  was  confined  to  per 
sonal  expression,  and  even  then  at  the  risk  of  the  gossiper. 
Nevertheless,  the  situation  provoked  the  intensest  curiosity. 
The  Colonel  was  approached — until  his  statement  that  he 
should  consider  any  attempt  to  overcome  his  professional 
secrecy  a  personal  reflection  withheld  further  advances. 
The  community  were  left  to  the  more  ostentatious  infor 
mation  of  the  defendant's  counsel,  Messrs.  Kitcham  and 
Bilser,  that  the  case  was  "ridiculous"  and  "rotten,"  that  the 
plaintiff  would  be  nonsuited,  and  the  fire-eating  Starbottle 
would  be  taught  a  lesson  that  he  could  not  "bully"  the  law 
• — and  there  were  some  dark  hints  of  a  conspiracy.  It  was 
even  hinted  that  the  "case"  was  the  revengeful  and  pre 
posterous  outcome  of  the  refusal  of  Hotchkiss  to  pay  Star- 
bottle  an  extravagant  fee  for  his  late  services  to  the  Ditch 
Company.  It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  these  words  were 
not  reported  to  the  Colonel.  It  was,  however,  an  unfortu 
nate  circumstance  for  the  calmer,  ethical  consideration  of  the 
subject  that  the  church  sided  with  Hotchkiss,  as  this  pro 
voked  an  equal  adherence  to  the  plaintiff  and  Starbottle  on 
the  part  of  the  larger  body  of  non-church-goers,  who  were 


COLONEL  STARBOTTLE  FOR  THE  PLAINTIFF     187 

delighted  at  a  possible  exposure  of  the  weakness  of  religious 
rectitude.  "I've  allus  had  my  suspicions  o'  them  early 
candle-light  meetings  down  at  that  gospel  shop,"  said  one 
critic,  "and  I  reckon  Deacon  Hotchkiss  didn't  rope  in  the 
gals  to  attend  jest  for  psalm-singing."  "Then  for  him  to 
get  up  and  leave  the  board  afore  the  game's  finished  and 
try  to  sneak  out  of  it,"  said  another.  "I  suppose  that'? 
what  they  call  religious." 

It  was  therefore  not  remarkable  that  the  courthouse  three 
weeks  later  was  crowded  with  an  excited  multitude  of  the 
curious  and  sympathizing.  The  fair  plaintiff,  with  her 
mother,  was  early  in  attendance,  and  under  the  Colonel's 
advice  appeared  in  the  same  modest  garb  in  which  she  had 
first  visited  his  office.  This  and  her  downcast  modest  de 
meanor  were  perhaps  at  first  disappointing  to  the  crowd, 
who  had  evidently  expected  a  paragon  of  loveliness — as  the 
Circe  of  the  grim  ascetic  defendant,  who  sat  beside  his  coun 
sel.  But  presently  all  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  Colonel,  who 
certainly  made  up  in  his  appearance  any  deficiency  of  his 
fair  client.  His  portly  figure  was  clothed  in  a  blue  dress- 
coat  with  brass  buttons,  a  buff  waistcoat  which  permitted 
his  frilled  shirt  front  to  become  erectile  above  it,  a  black 
satin  stock  which  confined  a  boyish  turned-down  collar 
around  his  full  neck,  and  immaculate  drill  trousers,  strapped 
over  varnished  boots.  A  murmur  ran  round  the  court.  "Old 
'Personally  Responsible'  had  got  his  war-paint  on,"  "The 
Old  War-Horse  is  smelling  powder,"  were  whispered  com 
ments.  Yet  for  all  that  the  most  irreverent  among  them 
recognized  vaguely,  in  this  bizarre  figure,  something  of  an 
honored  past  in  their  country's  history,  and  possibly  felt 
the  spell  of  old  deeds  and  old  names  that  had  once  thrilled 
their  boyish  pulses.  The  new  District  Judge  returned  Col 
onel  Starbottle's  profoundly  punctilious  bow.  The  Colonel 
was  followed  by  his  negro  servant,  carrying  a  parcel  of 
hymn-books  and  Bibles,  who,  with  a  courtesy  evidently  imi 
tated  from  his  master,  placed  one  before  the  opposite  coun 
sel.  This,  after  a  first  curious  glance,  the  lawyer  somewhat 
superciliously  tossed  aside.  But  when  Jim,  proceeding  tr 
the  jury-box,  placed  with  equal  politeness  the  remaining 


i88    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

copies  before  the  jury,  the  opposite  counsel  sprang  to  his 
feet. 

"I  want  to  direct  the  attention  of  the  Court  to  this  un 
precedented  tampering  with  the  jury,  by  this  gratuitous 
exhibition  of  matter  impertinent  and  irrelevant  to  the  issue." 

The  Judge  cast  an  inquiring  look  at  Colonel  Star- 
bottle. 

"May  it  please  the  Court,"  returned  Colonel  Starbottle 
with  dignity,  ignoring  the  counsel,  "the  defendant's  counsel 
will  observe  that  he  is  already  furnished  with  the  matter — 
which  I  regret  to  say  he  has  treated — in  the  presence  of 
the  Court — and  of  his  client,  a  deacon  of  the  church — with 
— er — great  superciliousness.  When  I  state  to  your  Honor 
that  the  books  in  question  are  hymn-books  and  copies  of 
the  Holy  Scriptures,  and  that  they  are  for  the  instruction 
of  the  jury,  to  whom  I  shall  have  to  refer  them  in  the  course 
of  my  opening,  I  believe  I  am  within  my  rights." 

"The  act  is  certainly  unprecedented,"  said  the  Judge, 
dryly,  "but  unless  the  counsel  for  the  plaintiff  expects  the 
jury  to  sing  from  these  hymn-books,  'their  introduction  is 
not  improper,  and  I  cannot  admit  the  objection.  As  de 
fendant's  counsel  are  furnished  with  copies  also,  they  can 
not  plead  'surprise,'  as  in  the  introduction  of  new  matter, 
and  as  plaintiff's  counsel  relies  evidently  upon  the  jury's  at 
tention  to  his  opening,  he  would  not  be  the  first  person  to 
distract  it."  After  a  pause  he  added,  addressing  the  Col 
onel,  who  remained  standing,  "The  Court  is  with  you,  sir; 
proceed." 

But  the  Colonel  remained  motionless  and  statuesque,  with 
folded  arms. 

"I  have  overruled  the  objection,"  repeated  the  Judge; 
"you  may  go  on." 

"I  am  waiting,  your  Honor,  for  the — er — withdrawal  by 
the  defendant's  counsel  of  the  word  'tampering,'  as  refers 
to  myself,  and  of  'impertinent,'  as  refers  to  the  sacred  vol 
umes." 

"The  request  is  a  proper  one,  and  I  have  no  doubt  will 
be  acceded  to,"  returned  the  Judge,  quietly.  The  defend 
ant's  counsel  rose  and  mumbled  a  few  words  of  apology,  and 


COLONEL  STARBOTTLE  FOR  THE  PLAINTIFF    189 

the  incident  closed.  There  was,  however,  a  general  feeling 
that  the  Colonel  had  in  some  way  "scored,"  and  if  his  ob 
ject  had  been  to  excite  the  greatest  curiosity  about  the 
books,  he  had  made  his  point. 

But  impassive  of  his  victory,  he  inflated  his  chest,  with 
his  right  hand  in  the  breast  of  his  buttoned  coat,  and  began. 
His  usual  high  color  had  paled  slightly,  but  the  small  pupils 
of  liis  prominent  eyes  glittered  like  steel.  The  young  girl 
leaned  forward  in  her  chair  with  an  attention  so  breathless, 
a  sympathy  so  quick,  and  an  admiration  so  artless  and  un 
conscious  that  in  an  instant  she  divided  with  the  speaker 
the  attention  of  the  whole  assemblage.  It  was  very  hot; 
the  court  was  crowded  to  suffocation;  even  the  open  win 
dows  revealed  a  crowd  of  faces  outside  the  building,  eagerly 
following  the  Colonel's  words. 

He  would  remind  the  jury  that  only  a  few  weeks  ago  be 
stood  there  as  the  advocate  of  a  powerful  company,  then 
represented  by  the  present  defendant.  He  spoke  then  as 
the  champion  of  strict  justice  against  legal  oppression;  no 
less  should  he  to-day  champion  the  cause  of  the  unpro 
tected  and  the  comparatively  defenseless — save  for  that 
paramount  power  which  surrounds  beauty  and  innocence—-* 
even  though  the  plaintiff  of  yesterday  was  the  defendant  of 
to-day.  As  he  approached  the  court  a  moment  ago  he  had 
raised  his  eyes  and  beheld  the  starry  flag  flying  from  its 
dome — and  he  know  that  glorious  banner  was  a  symbol  of 
the  perfect  equality,  under  the  Constitution,  of  the  rich  and 
the  poor,  the  strong  and  the  weak — an  equality  which  made 
the  simple  citizen  taken  from  the  plough  in  the  veld,  the 
pick  in  the  gulch,  or  from  behind  the  counter  in  the  mining 
town,  who  served  on  that  jury,  the  equal  arbiters  of  justice 
with  that  highest  legal  luminary  whom  they  were  proud  to 
welcome  on  the  bench  to-day.  The  Colonel  paused,  with 
a  stately  bow  to  the  impassive  Judge.  It  was  this,  he  con 
tinued,  which  lifted  his  heart  as  he  approached  the  building. 
And  yet — he  had  entered  it  with  an  uncertain — he  might 
almost  say — a  timid  step.  And  why?  He  knew,  gentle 
men,  he  was  about  to  confront  a  profound — aye!  a  sacred 
responsibility  1  Those  hymn-books  and  holy  writings  handed 


190    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

to  the  jury  were  not,  as  his  Honor  surmised,  for  the 
purpose  of  enabling  the  jury  to  indulge  in — er — prelimi 
nary  choral  exercise!  He  might,  indeed,  say  "alas  not!" 
They  were  the  damning,  incontrovertible  proofs  of  the  per 
fidy  of  the  defendant.  And  they  would  prove  as  terrible  a 
warning  to  him  as  the  fatal  characters  upon  Belshazzar's 
wall.  There  was  a  strong  sensation.  Hotchkiss  turned  a 
sallow  green.  His  lawyers  assumed  a  careless  smile. 

It  was  his  duty  to  tell  them  that  this  was  not  one  of 
those  ordinary  "breach-of-promise"  cases  which  were  too 
often  the  occasion  of  ruthless  mirth  and  indecent  levity  in 
the  courtroom.  The  jury  would  find  nothing  of  that  here. 
There  were  no  love-letters  with  the  epithets  of  endearment, 
nor  those  mystic  crosses  and  ciphers  which,  he  had  been 
credibly  informed,  chastely  hid  the  exchange  of  those  mutual 
caresses  known  as  "kisses."  There  was  no  cruel  tearing  of 
the  veil  from  those  sacred  privacies  of  the  human  affection — 
there  was  no  forensic  shouting  out  of  those  fond  confidences 
meant  only  for  one.  But  there  was,  he  was  shocked  to  say, 
a  new  sacrilegious  intrusion.  The  weak  pipings  of  Cupid 
were  mingled  with  the  chorus  of  the  saints — the  sanctity  of 
the  temple  known  as  the  "meeting-house"  was  desecrated 
by  proceedings  more  in  keeping  with  the  shrine  of  Venus— 
and  the  inspired  writings  themselves  were  used  as  the  medi 
um  of  amatory  and  wanton  flirtation  by  the  defendant  in 
his  sacred  capacity  as  Deacon. 

The  Colonel  artistically  paused  after  this  thunderous  de 
nunciation.  The  jury  turned  eagerly  to  the  leaves  of  the 
hymn-books,  but  the  larger  gaze  of  the  audience  remained 
fixed  upon  the  speaker  and  the  girl,  who  sat  in  rapt  admira 
tion  of  his  periods.  After  the  hush,  the  Colonel  continued 
in  a  lower  and  sadder  voice:  "There  are,  perhaps,  few  of 
us  here,  gentlemen — with  the  exception  of  the  defendant — 
who  can  arrogate  to  themselves  the  title  of  regular  church 
goers,  or  to  whom  these  humbler  functions  of  the  prayer- 
meeting,  the  Sunday-school,  and  the  Bible  class  are  habit 
ually  familiar.  Yet" — more  solemnly — "down  in  your 
hearts  is  the  deep  conviction  of  our  short-comings  and  fail 
ings,  and  a  laudable  desire  that  others  at  least  should  profit 


COLONEL  STARBOTTLE  FOR  THE  PLAINTIFF     191 

by  the  teachings  we  neglect.  Perhaps,"  he  continued,  clos 
ing  his  eyes  dreamily,  "there  is  not  a  man  here  who  does 
not  recall  the  happy  days  of  his  boyhood,  the  rustic  village 
spire,  the  lessons  shared  with  some  artless  village  maiden, 
with  whom  he  later  sauntered,  hand  in  hand,  through  tha 
woods,  as  the  simple  rhyme  rose  upon  their  lips, 

Always  make  it  a  point  to  have  it  a  rule 
Never  to  be  late  at  the  Sabbath-school. 

He  would  recall  the  strawberry  feasts,  the  welcome  annual 
picnic,  redolent  with  hunks  of  gingerbread  and  sarsaparilla. 
How  would  they  feel  to  know  that  these  sacred  recollections 
were  now  forever  profaned  in  their  memory  by  the  knowl 
edge  that  the  defendant  was  capable  of  using  such  occasions 
to  make  love  to  the  larger  girls  and  teachers,  whilst  his  art 
less  companions  were  innocently — the  Court  will  pardon  me 
for  introducing  what  I  am  credibly  informed  is  the  local 
expression  'doing  gooseberry'?"  The  tremulous  flicker  of 
a  smile  passed  over  the  faces  of  the  listening  crowd,  and  the 
Colonel  slightly  winced.  But  he  recovered  himself  instantly, 
and  continued: 

"My  client,  the  only  daughter  of  a  widowed  mother — 
who  has  for  years  stemmed  the  varying  tides  of  adversity — 
in  the  western  precincts  of  this  town — stands  before  you  to 
day  invested  only  in  her  own  innocence.  She  wears  no — er 
— rich  gifts  of  her  faithless  admirer — is  panoplied  in  no 
jewels,  rings,  nor  mementoes  of  affection  such  as  lovers  de 
light  to  hang  upon  the  shrine  of  their  affections;  hers  is  not 
the  glory  with  which  Solomon  decorated  the  Queen  of  She- 
ba,  though  the  defendant,  as  I  shall  show  later,  dothed  hef 
in  the  less  expensive  flowers  of  the  king's  poetry.  No!  gen 
tlemen!  The  defendant  exhibited  in  this  affair  a  certain 
frugality  of — er — pecuniary  investment,  which  I  am  willing 
to  admit  may  be  commendable  in  his  class.  His  only  gift 
was  characteristic  alike  of  his  methods  and  his  economy. 
There  is,  I  understand,  a  certain  not  unimportant  feature 
of  religious  exercise  known  as  'taking  a  collection.'  The  de 
fendant,  on  this  occasion,  by  the  mute  presentation  of  a  tip 


192    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

plate  covered  with  baize,  solicited  the  pecuniary  contribu 
tions  of  the  faithful.  On  approaching  the  plaintiff,  however, 
he  himself  slipped  a  love-token  upon  the  plate  and  pushed  it 
towards  her.  That  love-token  was  a  lozenge — a  small  disk, 
I  have  reason  to  believe,  concocted  of  peppermint  and  sugar, 
bearing  upon  its  reverse  surface  the  simple  words,  'I  love 
you!'  I  have  since  ascertained  that  these  disks  may  be 
bought  for  five  cents  a  dozen — or  at  considerably  less  than 
one  half-cent  for  the  single  lozenge.  Yes,  gentlemen,  the 
words  'I  love  you!' — the  oldest  legend  of  all;  the  refrain, 
'when  the  morning  stars  sang  together' — were  presented  to 
the  plaintiff  by  a  medium  so  insignificant  that  there  is,  hap 
pily,  no  coin  in  the  republic  low  enough  to  represent  its 
value. 

"I  shall  prove  to  you,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  said  the 
Colonel,  solemnly,  drawing  a  Bible  from  his  coat-tail  pocket, 
"that  the  defendant,  for  the  last  twelve  months,  conducted 
an  amatory  correspondence  with  the  plaintiff  by  means  of 
underlined  words  of  sacred  writ  and  church  psalmody,  such 
as  'beloved,'  'precious,'  and  'dearest,'  occasionally  appro 
priating  whole  passages  which  seemed  apposite  to  his  tender 
passion.  I  shall  call  your  attention  to  one  of  them.  The 
defendant,  while  professing  to  be  a  total  abstainer — a  man 
who,  in  my  own  knowledge,  has  refused  spirituous  refresh 
ment  as  an  inordinate  weakness  of  the  flesh,  with  shameless 
hypocrisy  underscores  with  his  pencil  the  following  pas 
sage  and  presents  it  to  the  plaintiff.  The  gentlemen  of  the 
jury  will  find  it  in  the  Song  of  Solomon,  page  548,  chapter 
II,  verse  5."  After  a  pause,  in  which  the  rapid  rustling  of 
leaves  was  heard  in  the  jury-box,  Colonel  Starbottle  de 
claimed  in  a  pleading,  stentorian  voice,  "  'Stay  me  with — 
er — flagons,  comfort  me  with — er — apples — for  I  am — er — 
sick  of  love.'  Yes,  gentlemen! — yes,  you  may  well  turn 
from  those  accusing  pages  and  look  at  the  double-faced  de 
fendant.  He  desires — to — er — be — 'stayed  with  flagons'! 
I  am  not  aware,  at  present,  what  kind  of  liquor  is  habitually 
dispensed  at  these  meetings,  and  for  which  the  defendant 
so  urgently  clamored;  but  it  will  be  my  duty  before  this 
trial  is  over  to  discover  it,  if  I  have  to  summon  every 


COLONEL  STARBOTTLE  FOR  THE  PLAINTIFF    193 

barkeeper  in  this  district.  For  the  moment,  I  will  simply  call 
your  attention  to  the  quantity.  It  is  not  a  single  drink  that 
the  defendant  asks  for — not  a  glass  of  light  and  generous 
wine,  to  be  shared  with  his  inamorata — but  a  number  of 
flagons  or  vessels,  each  possibly  holding  a  pint  measure — 
for  himself!" 

The  smile  of  the  audience  had  become  a  laugh.  The 
Judge  looked  up  warningly,  when  his  eye  caught  the  fact 
that  the  Colonel  had  again  winced  at  this  mirth.  He  re 
garded  him  seriously.  Mr.  Hotchkiss's  counsel  had  joined 
in  the  laugh  affectedly,  but  Hotchkiss  himself  was  ashy  pale. 
There  was  also  a  commotion  in  the  jury-box,  a  hurried  turn 
ing  over  of  leaves,  and  an  excited  discussion. 

"The  gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  said  the  Judge,  with  offi 
cial  gravity,  "will  please  keep  order  and  attend  only  to  the 
speeches  of  counsel.  Any  discussion  here  is  irregular  and 
premature — and  must  be  reserved  for  the  jury-room — after 
they  have  retired." 

The  foreman  of  the  jury  struggled  to  his  feet.  He  was 
a  powerful  man,  with  a  good-humored  face,  and,  in  spite  of 
his  unfelicitous  nickname  of  "The  Bone- Breaker,"  had  a 
kindly,  simple,  but  somewhat  emotional  nature.  Neverthe 
less,  it  appeared  as  if  he  were  laboring  under  some  powerful 
indignation. 

"Can  we  ask  a  question,  Judge?"  he  said,  respectfully, 
although  his  voice  had  the  unmistakable  Western-American 
ring  in  it,  as  of  one  who  was  unconscious  that  he  could  be 
addressing  any  but  his  peers. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Judge,  good-humoredly. 

"We're  rinding  in  this  yere  piece,  out  of  which  the  Kernel 
hes  just  bin  a-quotin',  some  language  that  me  and  my 
pardners  allow  hadn't  orter  to  be  read  out  afore  a  young 
lady  in  court — and  we  want  to  know  of  you — ez  a  fair- 
minded  and  impartial  man — ef  this  is  the  reg'lar  kind 
o'  book  given  to  gals  and  babies  down  at  the  meetin'- 
house." 

"The  jury  will  please  follow  the  counsel's  speech,  with 
out  comment,"  said  the  Judge,  briefly,  fully  aware  that  the 
defendant's  counsel  would  spring  to  his  feet,  as  he  did 


i94    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

promptly.  "The  Court  will  allow  us  to  explain  to  the  gen 
tlemen  that  the  language  they  seem  to  object  to  has  been 
accepted  by  the  best  theologians  for  the  last  thousand  years 
as  being  purely  mystic.  As  I  will  explain  later,  those  are 
merely  symbols  of  the  Church — " 

"Of  wot?"  interrupted  the  foreman,  in  deep  scorn. 

"Of  the  Church!" 

"We  ain't  askin'  any  questions  o'  you — and  we  ain't 
takin'  any  answers,"  said  the  foreman,  sitting  down 
promptly. 

"I  must  insist,"  siad  the  Judge,  sternly,  "that  the  plain 
tiff's  counsel  be  allowed  to  continue  his  opening  without  in 
terruption.  You"  (to  defendant's  counsel)  "will  have  your 
opportunity  to  reply  later." 

The  counsel  sank  down  in  his  seat  with  the  bitter  convic 
tion  that  the  jury  was  manifestly  against  him,  and  the  case 
as  good  as  lost.  But  his  face  was  scarcely  as  disturbed  as 
his  client's,  who,  in  great  agitation,  had  begun  to  argue  with 
him  wildly,  and  was  apparently  pressing  some  point  against 
the  lawyer's  vehement  opposal.  The  Colonel's  murky  eyes 
brightened  as  he  still  stood  erect  with  his  hand  thrust  in 
his  breast. 

"It  -will  be  put  to  you,  gentlemen,  when  the  counsel  on 
the  other  side  refrains  from  mere  interruption  and  confines 
himself  to  reply,  that  my  unfortunate  client  has  no  action — 
no  remedy  at  law — because  there  were  no  spoken  words  of 
endearment.  But,  gentlemen,  it  will  depend  upon  you  to 
say  what  are  and  what  are  not  articulate  expressions  of 
love.  We  all  know  that  among  the  lower  animals,  with 
whom  you  may  possibly  be  called  upon  to  classify  the  de 
fendant,  there  are  certain  signals  more  or  less  harmonious, 
as  the  case  may  be.  The  ass  brays,  the  horse  neighs,  the 
sheep  bleats — the  feathered  denizens  of  the  grove  call  to 
their  mates  in  more  musical  roundelays.  These  are  recog 
nized  facts,  gentlemen,  which  you  yourselves,  as  dwellers 
among  nature  in  this  beautiful  land,  are  all  cognizant  of. 
They  are  facts  that  no  one  would  deny — and  we  should 
have  a  poor  opinion  of  the  ass  who,  at — er — such  a  su 
preme  moment,  would  attempt  to  suggest  that  his  call  was 


195 

unthinking  and  without  significance.  But,  gentlemen,  I 
shall  prove  to  you  that  such  was  the  foolish,  self-convict 
ing  custom  of  the  defendant.  With  the  greatest  reluctance, 
and  the — er — greatest  pain,  I  succeeded  in  wresting  from 
the  maidenly  modesty  of  my  fair  client  the  innocent  con 
fession  that  tihe  defendant  had  induced  her  to  correspond 
with  him  in  these  methods.  Picture  to  yourself,  gentlemen, 
the  lonely  moonlight  road  beside  the  widow's  humble  cot 
tage.  It  is  a  beautiful  night,  sanctified  to  the  affections,  and 
the  innocent  girl  is  leaning  from  her  casement.  Presently 
there  appears  upon  the  road  a  slinking,  stealthy  figure — the 
defendant,  on  his  way  to  church.  True  to  the  instruction 
she  has  received  from  him,  her  lips  part  in  the  musical  ut 
terance"  (the  Colonel  lowered  his  voice  in  a  faint  falsetto, 
presumably  in  fond  imitation  of  his  fair  client),  "  'Kerree!' 
Instantly  the  night  became  resonant  with  the  impassioned 
reply"  (the  Colonel  here  lifted  his  voice  in  stentorian  tones), 
"  ''Kerrow.'  Again,  as  he  passes,  rises  the  soft  'Kerree'; 
again,  as  his  form  is  lost  in  the  distance,  comes  back  the 
deep  'Kerrow.'  " 

A  burst  of  laughter,  long,  loud,  and  irrepressible,  struck 
the  whole  courtroom,  and  before  the  Judge  could  lift  his 
half-composed  face  and  take  his  handkerchief  from  his 
mouth,  a  faint  "Kerree"  from  some  unrecognized  obscurity 
of  the  courtroom  was  followed  by  a  loud  "Kerrow"  from 
some  opposite  locality.  "The  sheriff  will  clear  the  court," 
said  the  Judge,  sternly;  but  alas,  as  the  embarrassed  and 
choking  officials  rushed  hither  and  thither,  a  soft  "Kerree" 
from  the  spectators  at  the  window,  outside  the  courthouse, 
was  answered  by  a  loud  chorus  of  "Kerrows"  from  the  op 
posite  windows,  filled  with  onlookers.  Again  the  laughter 
arose  everywhere — even  the  fair  plaintiff  herself  sat  con 
vulsed  behind  her  handkerchief. 

The  figure  of  Colonel  Starbottle  alone  remained  erect — 
white  and  rigid.  And  then  the  Judge,  looking  up,  saw  what 
no  one  else  in  the  court  had  seen — that  the  Colonel  was 
sincere  and  in  earnest;  that  what  he  had  conceived  to  be 
the  pleader's  most  perfect  acting,  and  most  elaborate  irony, 
were  the  deep,  serious,  mirthless  convictions  of  a  man  without 


196 

the  least  sense  of  humor.  There  was  a  touch  of  this  re 
spect  in  the  Judge's  voice  as  he  said  to  him,  gently,  "You 
may  proceed,  Colonel  Starbottle." 

"I  thank  your  Honor,"  said  the  Colonel,  slowly,  "for 
recognizing  and  doing  all  in  your  power  to  prevent  an  in 
terruption  that,  during  my  thirty  years'  experience  at  the 
bar,  I  have  never  yet  been  subjected  to  without  the  privi 
lege  of  holding  the  instigators  thereof  responsible — person 
ally  responsible.  It  is  possibly  my  fault  that  I  have  failed, 
oratorically,  to  convey  to  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury  the 
full  force  and  significance  of  the  defendant's  signals.  I  am 
aware  that  my  voice  is  singularly  deficient  in  producing 
either  the  dulcet  tones  of  my  fair  client  or  the  impassioned 
vehemence  of  the  defendant's  repose.  I  will,"  continued 
the  Colonel,  with  a  fatigued  but  blind  fatuity  that  ignored 
the  hurriedly  knit  brows  and  warning  eyes  of  the  Judge, 
"try  again.  The  note  uttered  by  my  client"  (lowering  his 
voice  to  the  faintest  of  falsettos)  "was  'Kerree';  the  re 
sponse  was  'Kerrow'  " — and  the  Colonel's  voice  fairly  shook 
the  dome  above  him. 

Another  uproar  of  laughter  followed  this  apparently  au 
dacious  repetition,  but  was  interrupted  by  an  unlooked-for 
incident.  The  defendant  rose  abruptly,  and  tearing  himself 
away  from  the  withholding  hand  and  pleading  protestations 
of  his  counsel,  absolutely  fled  from  the  courtroom,  his  ap 
pearance  outside  being  recognized  by  a  prolonged  "Kerrow" 
from  the  bystanders,  which  again  and  again  followed  him 
in  the  distance.  In  the  momentary  silence  which  followed, 
the  Colonel's  voice  was  heard  saying,  "We  rest  here,  your 
Honor,"  and  he  sat  down.  No  less  white,  but  more  agi 
tated,  was  the  face  of  the  defendant's  counsel,  who  in 
stantly  rose. 

"For  some  unexplained  reason,  your  Honor,  my  client  de 
sires  to  suspend  further  proceedings,  with  a  view  to  effect 
a  peaceable  compromise  with  the  plaintiff.  As  he  is  a  man 
of  wealth  and  position,  he  is  able  and  willing  to  pay  liber 
ally  for  that  privilege.  While  I,  as  his  counsel,  am  still 
convinced  of  his  legal  irresponsibility,  as  he  has  chosen, 
however,  to  publicly  abandon  his  rights  here,  I  can  only  ask 


your  Honor's  permission   to  suspend   further  proceedings 
until  I  can  confer  with  Colonel  Starbottle." 

"As  far  as  I  can  follow  the  pleadings,"  said  the  Judge, 
gravely,  "the  case  seems  to  be  hardly  one  for  litigation,  and 
I  approve  of  the  defendant's  course,  while  I  strongly  urge 
the  plaintiff  to  accept  it." 

Colonel  Starbottle  bent  over  his  fair  client.  Presently 
he  rose,  unchanged  in  look  or  demeanor.  "I  yield,  your 
Honor,  to  the  wishes  of  my  client,  and — er — lady.  We  ac 
cept." 

Before  the  court  adjourned  that  day  it  was  known 
throughout  the  town  that  Adoniram  K.  Hotchkiss  had  com" 
promised  the  suit  for  four  thousand  dollars  and  costs. 

Colonel  Starbottle  had  so  far  recovered  his  equanimity  as 
to  strut  jauntily  towards  his  office,  where  he  was  to  meet  his 
fair  client.  He  was  surprised,  however,  to  find  her  already 
there,  and  in  company  with  a  somewhat  sheepish-looking 
young  man — a  stranger.  If  the  Colonel  had  any  disap 
pointment  in  meeting  a  third  party  to  the  interview,  his 
old-fashioned  courtesy  did  not  permit  him  to  show  it.  He 
bowed  graciously,  and  politely  motioned  them  each  to  a  seat. 

"I  reckoned  I'd  bring  Hiram  round  with  me,"  said  the 
young  lady,  lifting  her  searching  eyes,  after  a  pause,  to  the 
Colonel's,  "though  he  -was  awful  shy,  and  allowed  that  you 
didn't  know  him  from  Adam — or  even  suspected  his  exist 
ence.  But  I  said,  'That's  just  where  you  slip  up,  Hiram; 
a  pow'ful  man  like  the  Colonel  knows  everything — and  I've 
seen  it  in  his  eye.'  Lordy!"  she  continued,  with  a  laugh, 
leaning  forward  over  her  parasol,  as  her  eyes  again  sought  the 
Colonel's,  "don't  you  remember  when  you  asked  me  if  I 
loved  that  old  Hotchkiss,  and  I  told  you  'That's  tellin','  and 
you  looked  at  me,  Lordy!  I  knew  then  you  suspected  there 
was  a  Hiram  somewhere — as  good  as  if  I'd  told  you.  Now, 
you,  jest  get  up,  Hiram,  and  give  the  Colonel  a  good  hand 
shake.  For  if  it  wasn't  for  him  and  his  searchin'  ways,  and 
his  awful  power  of  language,  I  wouldn't  hev  got  that  four 
thousand  dollars  out  o'  that  flirty  fool  Hotchkiss — enough 
to  buy  a  farm,  so  as  you  and  me  could  get  married!  That's 
what  you  owe  to  him,.  Don't  stand  there  like  a  stuck  fool 


\g8    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

starin'  at  him.  He  won't  eat  you — though  he's  killed  many 
a  better  man.  Come,  have  7  got  to  do  all  the  kissin'!" 

It  is  of  record  that  the  Colonel  bowed  so  courteously  and 
so  profoundly  that  he  managed  not  merely  to  evade  the 
proffered  hand  of  the  shy  Hiram,  but  to  only  lightly  touch 
the  franker  and  more  impulsive  fingertips  of  the  gentle 
Zaidee.  "I — er — offer  my  sincerest  congratulations — 
though  I  think  you — er — overestimate — my — er — powers 
of  penetration.  Unfortunately,  a  pressing  engagement, 
which  may  oblige  me  also  to  leave  town  to-night,  forbids 
my  saying  more.  I  have — er — left  the — er — business  set 
tlement  of  this — er — case  in  the  hands  of  the  lawyers  who 
do  my  office-work,  and  who  will  show  you  every  attention. 
And  now  let  me  wish  you  a  very  good  afternoon." 

Nevertheless,  the  Colonel  returned  to  his  private  room, 
and  it  was  nearly  twilight  when  the  faithful  Jim  entered, 
to  find  him  sitting  meditatively  before  his  desk.  "To'  God! 
Kernel — I  hope  dey  ain't  nuffin  de  matter,  but  you's  lookin' 
mightly  solemn!  I  ain't  seen  you  look  dat  way,  Kernel, 
since  de  day  pooh  Marse  Stryker  was  fetched  home  shot 
froo  de  head." 

"Hand  me  down  the  whiskey,  Jim,"  said  the  Colonel, 
rising  slowly. 

The  negro  flew  to  the  closet  joyfully,  and  brought  out  the 
bottle.  The  Colonel  poured  out  a  glass  of  the  spirit  and 
•drank  it  with  his  old  deliberation. 

"You're  quite  right,  Jim,"  he  said,  putting  down  his  glass, 
"but  I'm — er — getting  old — and — somehow — I  am  missing 
poor  Stryker  damnably!" 


THE  DUPLICITY  OF 
HARGRAVES 

BY  O.  HENRY  (1862-1910) 

WHEN  Major  Pendleton  Talbot,  of  Mobile,  sir,  and 
his  daughter,  Miss  Lydia  Talbot,  came  to  Washington 
to  reside,  they  selected  for  a  boarding  place  a  house 
that  stood  fifty  yards  back  from  one  of  the  quietest  avenues. 
It  was  an  old-fashioned  brick  building,  with  a  portico  upheld 
by  tall  white  pillars.  The  yard  was  shaded  by  stately  locusts 
and  elms,  and  a  catalpa  tree  in  season  rained  its  pink  and 
white  blossoms  upon  the  grass.  Rows  of  high  box  bushes 
lined  the  fence  and  walks.  It  was  the  Southern  style  and 
aspect  of  the  place  that  pleased  the  eyes  of  the  Talbots. 

In  this  pleasant  private  boarding  house  they  engaged 
rooms,  including  a  study  for  Major  Talbot,  who  was  adding 
the  finishing  chapters  to  his  book,  Anecdotes  and  Reminis 
cences  of  the  Alabama  Army,  Bench,  and  Bar. 

Major  Talbot  was  of  the  old,  old  South.  The  present 
day  had  little  interest  or  excellence  in  his  eyes.  His  mind 
lived  in  that  period  before  the  Civil  War  when  the  Talbots 
owned  thousands  of  acres  of  fine  cotton  land  and  the  slaves 
to  till  them;  when  the  family  mansion  was  the  scene  of 
princely  hospitality,  and  drew  its  guests  from  the  aristoc 
racy  of  the  South.  Out  of  that  period  he  had  brought  all 
its  old  pride  and  scruples  of  honor,  an  antiquated  and 
punctilious  politeness,  and  (you  would  think)  its  wardrobe. 

Such  clothes  were  surely  never  made  within  fifty  years. 
The  Major  was  tall,  but  whenever  he  made  that  wonderful, 
archaic  genuflexion  he  called  a  bow,  the  corners  of  his  frock 
coat  swept  the  floor.  That  garment  was  a  surprise  even  to 

From  The  Junior  Munsey,  February,  1902.  Republished  in  the 
volume,  Sixes  and  Sevens  (1911),  by  O.  Henry;  copyright,  1911, 
by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. ;  reprinted  by  their  permission. 

199 


200    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

Washington,  which  has  long  ago  ceased  to  shy  at  the  frocks 
and  broad-brimmed  hats  of  Southern  Congressmen.  One 
of  the  boarders  christened  it  a  "Father  Hubbard,"  and  it 
certainly  was  high  in  the  waist  and  full  in  the  skirt. 

But  the  Major,  with  all  his  queer  clothes,  his  immense  area 
of  plaited,  raveling  shirt  bosom,  and  the  little  black  string 
tie  with  the  bow  always  slipping  on  one  side,  both  was 
smiled  at  and  liked  in  Mrs.  Vardeman's  select  boarding 
house.  Some  of  the  young  department  clerks  would  often 
"string  him,"  as  they  called  it,  getting  him  started  upon  the 
subject  dearest  to  him — the  traditions  and  history  of  his 
beloved  Southland.  During  his  talks  he  would  quote  freely 
from  the  Anecdotes  and  Reminiscences.  But  they  were 
very  careful  not  to  let  him  see  their  designs,  for  in  spite  of 
his  sixty-eight  years  he  could  make  the  boldest  of  them 
uncomfortable  under  the  steady  regard  of  his  piercing  gray 
eyes. 

Miss  Lydia  was  a  plump,  little  old  maid  of  thirty-five, 
with  smoothly  drawn,  tightly  twisted  hair  that  made  her 
look  still  older.  Old-fashioned,  too,  she  was;  but  ante 
bellum  glory  did  not  radiate  from  her  as  it  did  from  the 
Major.  She  possessed  a  thrifty  common  sense,  and  it  was 
she  who  handled  the  finances  of  the  family,  and  met  all 
comers  when  there  were  bills  to  pay.  The  Major  regarded 
board  bills  and  wash  bills  as  contemptible  nuisances.  They 
kept  coming  in  so  persistently  and  so  often.  Why,  the 
Major  wanted  to  know,  could  they  not  be  filed  and  paid  in 
a  lump  sum  at  some  convenient  period — say  when  the 
Anecdotes  and  Reminiscences  had  been  published  and  paid 
for?  Miss  Lydia  would  calmly  go  on  with  her  sewing  and 
say,  "We'll  pay  as  we  go  as  long  as  the  money  lasts,  and 
then  perhaps  they'll  have  to  lump  it." 

Most  of  Mrs.  Vardeman's  boarders  were  away  during 
the  day,  being  nearly  all  department  clerks  and  business 
men;  but  there  was  one  of  them  who  was  about  the  house 
a  great  deal  from  morning  to  night.  This  was  a  young 
man  named  Henry  Hopkins  Hargraves — every  one  in  the 
house  addressed  him  by  his  full  name — who  was  engaged 
at  one  of  the  popular  vaudeville  theaters.  Vaudeville  has 


THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES  201 

risen  to  such  a  respectable  plane  in  the  last  few  years,  and 
Mr.  Hargraves  was  such  a  modest  and  well-mannered  person, 
that  Mrs.  Vardeman  could  find  no  objection  to  enrolling 
him  upon  her  list  of  boarders. 

At  the  theater  Hargraves  was  known  as  an  all-round 
dialect  comedian,  having  a  large  repertoire  of  German,  Irish, 
Swede,  and  black-face  specialties.  But  Mr.  Hargraves  was 
ambitious,  and  often  spoke  of  his  great  desire  to  succeed 
in  legitimate  comedy. 

This  young  man  appeared  to  conceive  a  strong  fancy  for 
Major  Talbot.  Whenever  that  gentleman  would  begin  his 
Southern  reminiscences,  or  repeat  some  of  the  liveliest  of  the 
anecdotes,  Hargraves  could  always  be  found,  the  most  at 
tentive  among  his  listeners. 

For  a  time  the  Major  showed  an  inclination  to  discourage 
the  advances  of  the  "play  actor,"  as  he  privately  termed 
him;  but  soon  the  young  man's  agreeable  manner  and  in 
dubitable  appreciation  of  the  old  gentleman's  stories  com 
pletely  won  him  over. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  two  were  like  old  chums.  The 
Major  set  apart  each  afternoon  to  read  to  him  the  manu 
script  of  his  book.  During  the  anecdotes  Hargraves  never 
failed  to  laugh  at  exactly  the  right  point.  The  Major  was 
moved  to  declare  to  Miss  Lydia  one  day  that  young  Har 
graves  possessed  remarkable  perception  and  a  gratifying 
respect  for  the  old  regime.  And  when  it  came  to  talking 
of  those  old  days — if  Major  Talbot  liked  to  talk,  Mr.  Har 
graves  was  entranced  to  listen. 

Like  almost  all  old  people  who  talk  of  the  past,  the 
Major  loved  to  linger  over  details.  In  describing  the  splen 
did,  almost  royal,  days  of  the  old  planters,  he  would  hesi 
tate  until  he  had  recalled  the  name  of  the  negro  who  held 
his  horse,  or  the  exact  date  of  certain  minor  happenings,  or 
the  number  of  bales  of  cotton  raised  in  such  a  year;  but 
Hargraves  never  grew  impatient  or  lost  interest.  On  the 
contrary,  he  would  advance  questions  on  a  variety  of  sub 
jects  connected  with  the  life  of  that  time,  and  he  never  failed 
co  extract  ready  replies. 

The  fox  hunts,  the  'possum  suppers,  the  hoe-downs  and 


202    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

jubilees  in  the  negro  quarters,  the  banquets  in  the  plan 
tation-house  hall,  when  invitations  went  for  fifty  miles 
around;  the  occasional  feuds  with  the  neighboring  gentry; 
the  Major's  duel  with  Rathbone  Culbertson  about  Kitty 
Chalmers,  who  afterward  married  a  Thwaite  of  South  Caro 
lina;  and  private  yacht  races  for  fabulous  sums  on  Mobile 
Bay;  the  quaint  beliefs,  improvident  habits,  and  loyal  vir 
tues  of  the  old  slaves — all  these  were  subjects  that  held  both 
the  Major  and  Hargraves  absorbed  for  hours  at  a  time. 

Sometimes,  at  night,  when  the  young  man  would  be  com 
ing  upstairs  to  his  room  after  his  turn  at  the  theater  was 
over,  the  Major  would  appear  at  the  door  of  his  study  and 
beckon  archly  to  him.  Going  in,  Hargraves  would  find  a 
little  table  set  with  a  decanter,  sugar  bowl,  fruit,  and  a  big 
bunch  of  fresh  green  mint. 

"It  occurred  to  me,"  the  Major  would  begin — he  was  al 
ways  ceremonious — "that  perhaps  you  might  have  found 
your  duties  at  the — at  your  place  of  occupation — sufficiently 
arduous  to  enable  you,  Mr.  Hargraves,  to  appreciate  what 
the  poet  might  well  have  had  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote, 
'tired  Nature's  sweet  restorer' — one  of  our  Southern 
juleps." 

It  was  a  fascination  to  Hargraves  to  watch  him  make  it. 
He  took  rank  among  artists  when  he  began,  and  he  never 
varied  the  process.  With  what  delicacy  he  bruised  the  mint; 
with  what  exquisite  nicety  he  estimated  the  ingredients; 
with  what  solicitous  care  he  capped  the  compound  with  the 
scarlet  fruit  glowing  against  the  dark  green  fringe!  And 
then  the  hospitality  and  grace  with  which  he  offered  it, 
after  the  selected  oat  straws  had  been  plunged  into  its  tink 
ling  depths! 

After  about  four  months  in  Washington,  Miss  Lydia  dis 
covered  one  morning  that  they  were  almost  without  money. 
The  Anecdotes  and  Reminiscences  was  completed,  but 
publishers  had  not  jumped  at  the  collected  gems  of  Ala 
bama  sense  and  wit.  The  rental  of  a  small  house  which 
they  still  owned  in  Mobile  was  two  months  in  arrears.  Their 
board  money  for  the  month  would  be  due  in  three  days. 
Miss  Lydia  called  her  father  to  a  consultation. 


THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES  203 

"No  money?"  said  he  with  a  surprised  look.  "It  is  quite 
annoying  to  be  called  on  so  frequently  for  these  petty  sums. 
Really,  I— 

The  Major  searched  his  pockets.  He  found  only  a  two- 
dollar  bill,  which  he  returned  to  his  vest  pocket. 

"I  must  attend  to  this  at  once,  Lydia,"  he  said.  "Kindly 
get  me  my  umbrella  and  I  will  go  downtown  immediately. 
The  congressman  from  our  district,  General  Fulghum,  as 
sured  me  some  days  ago  that  he  would  use  his  influence  to 
get  my  book  published  at  an  early  date.  I  will  go  to  his 
hotel  at  once  and  see  what  arrangement  has  been  made." 

With  a  sad  little  smile  Miss  Lydia  watched  him  button 
his  "Father  Hubbard"  and  depart,  pausing  at  the  door,  as 
he  always  did,  to  bow  profoundly. 

That  evening,  at  dark,  he  returned.  It  seemed  that  Con 
gressman  Fulghum  had  seen  the  publisher  who  had  the 
Major's  manuscript  for  reading.  That  person  had  said  that 
if  the  anecdotes,  etc.,  were  carefully  pruned  down  about 
one-half,  in  order  to  eliminate  the  sectional  and  class  preju 
dice  with  which  the  book  was  dyed  from  end  to  end,  he 
might  consider  its  publication. 

The  Major  was  in  a  white  heat  of  anger,  but  regained  his 
equanimity,  according  to  his  code  of  manners,  as  soon  as 
he  was  in  Miss  Lydia's  presence. 

"We  must  have  money,"  said  Miss  Lydia,  with  a  little 
wrinkle  above  her  nose.  "Give  me  the  two  dollars,  and  I 
will  telegraph  to  Uncle  Ralph  for  some  to-night." 

The  Major  drew  a  small  envelope  from  his  upper  vest 
pocket  and  tossed  it  on  the  table. 

"Perhaps  it  was  injudicious,"  he  said  mildly,  "but  the 
sum  was  so  merely  nominal  that  I  bought  tickets  to  the 
theater  to-night.  It's  a  new  war  drama,  Lydia.  I  thought 
you  would  be  pleased  to  witness  its  first  production  in 
Washington.  I  am  told  that  the  South  has  very  fair  treat 
ment  in  the  play.  I  confess  I  should  like  to  see  the  per 
formance  myself." 

Miss  Lydia  threw  up  her  hands  in  silent  despair. 

Still,  as  the  tickets  were  bought,  they  might  as  well  be 
used.  So  that  evening,  as  they  sat  in  the  theater  listening 


2O4 

to  the  lively  overture,  even  Miss  Lydia  was  minded  to 
relegate  their  troubles,  for  the  hour,  to  second  place.  The 
Major,  in  spotless  linen,  with  his  extraordinary  coat  show 
ing  only  where  it  was  closely  buttoned,  and  his  white  hair 
smoothly  roached,  looked  really  fine  and  distinguished.  The 
curtain  went  up  on  the  first  act  of  A  Magnolia  Flower, 
revealing  a  typical  Southern  plantation  scene.  Major  Tal- 
bot  betrayed  some  interest. 

"Oh,  see!"  exclaimed  Miss  Lydia,  nudging  his  arm,  and 
pointing  to  her  program. 

The  Major  put  on  his  glasses  and  read  the  line  in  the  cast 
of  characters  that  her  fingers  indicated. 

Col.  Webster  Calhoun.  .  .  .    Mr.  Hopkins  Hargraves. 

"It's  our  Mr.  Hargraves,"  said  Miss  Lydia.  "It  must 
be  his  first  appearance  in  what  he  calls  'the  legitimate.'  I'm 
so  glad  for  him." 

Not  until  the  second  act  did  Col.  Webster  Calhoun  ap 
pear  upon  the  stage.  When  he  made  his  entry  Major  Tal- 
bot  gave  an  audible  sniff,  glared  at  him,  and  seemed  to 
freeze  solid.  Miss  Lydia  uttered  a  little,  ambiguous  squeak 
and  crumpled  her  program  in  her  hand.  For  Colonel 
Calhoun  was  made  up  as  nearly  resembling  Major  Talbot 
as  one  pea  does  another.  The  long,  thin  white  hair,  curly 
at  the  ends,  the  aristocratic  beak  of  a  nose,  the  crumpled, 
wide,  raveling  shirt  front,  the  string  tie,  with  the  bow  nearly 
under  one  ear,  were  almost  exactly  duplicated.  And  then, 
to  clinch  the  imitation,  he  wore  the  twin  to  the  Major's 
supposed  to  be  unparalleled  coat.  High-collared,  baggy, 
empire-waisted,  ample-skirted,  hanging  a  foot  lower  in  front 
than  behind,  the  garment  could  have  been  designed  from  no 
other  pattern.  From  then  on,  the  Major  and  Miss  Lydia 
sat  bewitched,  and  saw  the  counterfeit  presentment  of  a 
haughty  Talbot  "dragged,"  as  the  Major  afterward  ex 
pressed  it,  "through  the  slanderous  mire  of  a  corrupt  stage." 

Mr.  Hargraves  had  used  his  opportunities  well.  He 
had  caught  the  Major's  little  idiosyncrasies  of  speech,  ac 
cent,  and  intonation  and  his  pompous  courtliness  to  per 
fection — exaggerating  all  to  the  purpose  of  the  stage.  When 
ke  performed  that  marvelous  bow  that  the  Major  fondly 


THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES  205 

imagined  to  be  the  pink  of  all  salutations,  the  audienca 
sent  forth  a  sudden  round  of  hearty  applause. 

Miss  Lydia  sat  immovable,  not  daring  to  glance  toward 
her  father.  Sometimes  her  hand  next  to  him  would  be  laid 
against  her  cheek,  as  if  to  conceal  the  smile  which,  in 
spite  of  her  disapproval,  sfie  could  not  entirely  suppress. 

The  culmination  of  Hargraves'  audacious  imitation  took 
place  in  the  third  act.  The  scene  is  where  Colonel  Calhoun 
entertains  a  few  of  the  neighboring  planters  in  his  "den." 

Standing  at  a  table  in  the  center  of  the  stage,  with  his 
friends  grouped  about  him,  he  delivers  that  inimitable, 
rambling  character  monologue  so  famous  in  A  Magnolia 
Flower,  at  the  same  time  that  he  deftly  makes  juleps  foi 
the  party. 

Major  Talbot,  sitting  quietly,  but  white  with  indigna 
tion,  heard  his  best  stories  retold,  his  pet  theories  and  hol> 
bies  advanced  and  expanded,  and  the  dream  of  the  Anec 
dotes  and  Reminiscences  served,  exaggerated  and  garbled, 
His  favorite  narrative — that  of  his  duel  with  Rathbone 
Culbertson — was  not  omitted,  and  it  was  delivered  with 
more  fire,  egotism,  and  gusto  than  the  Major  himself  put 
into  it. 

The  monologue  concluded  with  a  quaint,  delicious,  witty 
little  lecture  on  the  art  of  concocting  a  julep,  illustrated 
by  the  act.  Here  Major  Talbot's  delicate  but  showy  science 
was  reproduced  to  a  hair's  breadth — from  his  dainty  handling 
of  the  fragrant  weed — "the  one-thousandth  part  of  a  grain 
too  much  pressure,  gentlemen,  and  you  extract  the  bitter 
ness,  instead  of  the  aroma,  of  this  heaven-bestowed  plant" 
— to  his  solicitous  selection  of  the  oaten  straws. 

At  the  close  of  the  scene  the  audience  raised  a  tumultu 
ous  roar  of  appreciation.  The  portrayal  of  the  type  was  so 
exact,  so  sure  and  thorough,  that  the  leading  characters  in 
the  play  were  forgotten.  After  repeated  calls,  Hargraves 
came  before  the  curtain  and  bowed,  his  rather  boyish  face 
bright  and  flushed  with  the  knowledge  of  success. 

At  last  Miss  Lydia  turned  and  looked  at  the  Major.  His 
thin  nostrils  were  working  like  the  gills  of  a  fish.  He  laid 
both  shaking  hands  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair  to  rise. 


206    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"We  will  go,  Lydia,"  he  said  chokingly.  "This  is  an 
abominable — desecration." 

Before  he  could  rise,  she  pulled  him  back  into  his  seat. 

"We  will  stay  it  out,"  she  declared.  "Do  you  want  to 
advertise  the  copy  by  exhibiting  the  original  coat?"  So 
they  remained  to  the  end. 

Hargraves's  success  must  have  kept  him  up  late  that  night, 
for  neither  at  the  breakfast  nor  at  the  dinner  table  did  he 
appear. 

About  three  in  the  afternoon  he  tapped  at  the  door  of 
Major  Talbot's  study.  The  Major  opened  it,  and  Hargraves 
walked  in  with  his  hands  full  of  the  morning  papers — too 
full  of  his  triumph  to  notice  anything  unusual  in  the  Major's 
demeanor. 

"I  put  it  all  over  'em  last  night,  Major,"  he  began  ex 
ultantly.  "I  had  my  inning,  and,  I  think,  scored.  Here's 
what  The  Post  says: 

"  'His  conception  and  portrayal  of  the  old-time  Southern 
colonel,  with  his  absurd  grandiloquence,  his  eccentric  garb, 
his  quaint  idioms  and  phrases,  his  motheaten  pride  of  fam 
ily,  and  his  really  kind  heart,  fastidious  sense  of  honor, 
and  lovable  simplicity,  is  the  best  delineation  of  a  character 
role  on  the  boards  to-day.  The  coat  worn  by  Colonel  Cal- 
houn  is  itself  nothing  less  than  an  evolution  of  genius.  Mr. 
Hargraves  has  captured  his  public.' 

"How  does  that  sound,  Major,  for  a  first-nighter?" 

"I  had  the  honor" — the  Major's  voice  sounded  omi 
nously  frigid — "of  witnessing  your  very  remarkable  per 
formance,  sir,  last  night." 

Hargraves  looked  disconcerted. 

"You  were  there?  I  didn't  know  you  ever — I  didn't  know 
you  cared  for  the  theater.  Oh,  I  say,  Major  Talbot,"  he 
exclaimed  frankly,  "don't  you  be  offended.  I  admit  I  did 
get  a  lot  of  pointers  from  you  that  helped  out  wonderfully 
in  the  part.  But  it's  a  type,  you  know — not  individual, 
The  way  the  audience  caught  on  shows  that.  Half  the 
patrons  of  that  theater  are  Southerners.  They  recognized 
it." 

"Mr.   Hargraves,"  said  the  Major,   who  had  remained 


THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES  207 

standing,  "you  have  put  upon  me  an  unpardonable  insult. 
You  have  burlesqued  my  person,  grossly  betrayed  my  con 
fidence,  and  misused  my  hospitality.  If  I  thought  you 
possessed  the  faintest  conception  of  what  is  the  sign  manual 
of  a  gentleman,  or  what  is  due  one,  I  would  call  you  out, 
sir,  old  as  I  am.  I  will  ask  you  to  leave  the  room,  sir." 

The  actor  appeared  to  be  slightly  bewildered,  and  seemed 
hardly  to  take  in  the  full  meaning  of  the  old  gentleman's 
words. 

"I  am  truly  sorry  you  took  offense,"  he  said  regretfully. 
"Up  here  we  don't  look  at  things  just  as  you  people  do. 
I  know  men  who  would  buy  out  half  the  house  to  have  then 
personality  put  on  the  stage  so  the  public  would  recog 
nize  it." 

"They  are  not  from  Alabama,  sir,"  said  the  Major 
haughtily. 

"Perhaps  not.  I  have  a  pretty  good  memory,  Major; 
let  me  quote  a  few  lines  from  your  book.  In  response  to  a 
toast  at  a  banquet  given  in — •Milledgeville,  I  believe — you 
uttered,  and  intend  to  have  printed,  these  words: 

"  'The  Northern  man  is  utterly  without  sentiment  or 
warmth  except  in  so  far  as  the  feelings  may  be  turned  to 
his  own  commercial  profit.  He  will  suffer  without  resent 
ment  any  imputation  cast  upon  the  honor  of  himself  or 
his  loved  ones  that  does  not  bear  with  it  the  consequence 
of  pecuniary  loss.  In  his  charity,  he  gives  with  a  liberal 
hand;  but  it  must  be  heralded  with  the  trumpet  and  chroni 
cled  in  brass.' 

"Do  you  think  that  picture  is  fairer  than  the  one  you 
saw  of  Colonel  Calhoun  last  night?" 

"The  description,"  said  the  Major,  frowning,  "is — not 
without  grounds.  Some  exag — latitude  must  be  allowed  in 
public  speaking." 

"And  in  public  acting,"  replied  Hargraves. 

"That  is  not  the  point,"  persisted  the  Major,  unrelent 
ing.  "It  was  a  personal  caricature.  I  positively  decline  to 
overlook  it,  sir." 

"Major  Talbot,"  said  Hargraves,  with  a  winning  smile, 
"I  wish  you  would  understand  me.  I  want  you  to  know 


208    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

that  I  never  dreamed  of  insulting  you.  In  my  profession, 
all  life  belongs  to  me.  I  take  what  I  want,  and  what  I  can, 
and  return  it  over  the  footlights.  Now,  if  you  will,  let's 
let  it  go  at  that.  I  came  in  to  see  you  about  something 
else.  We've  been  pretty  good  friends  for  some  months,  and 
I'm  going  to  take  the  risk  of  offending  you  again.  I  know 
you  are  hard  up  for  money — never  mind  how  I  found  out, 
a  boarding  house  is  no  place  to  keep  such  matters  secret — 
and  I  want  you  to  let  me  help  you  out  of  the  pinch.  I've 
been  there  often  enough  myself.  I've  been  getting  a  fair 
salary  all  the  season,  and  I've  saved  some  money.  You're 
welcome  to  a  couple  hundred — or  even  more — until  you 
get " 

"Stop!"  commanded  the  Major,  with  his  arm  out 
stretched.  "It  seems  that  my  book  didn't  lie,  after  all. 
You  think  your  money  salve  will  heal  all  the  hurts  of 
honor.  Under  no  circumstances  would  I  accept  a  loan 
from  a  casual  acquaintance;  and  as  to  you,  sir,  I  would 
starve  before  I  would  consider  your  insulting  offer  of  a 
financial  adjustment  of  the  circumstances  we  have  discussed. 
I  beg  to  repeat  my  request  relative  to  your  quitting  the 
apartment." 

Hargraves  took  his  departure  without  'another  word.  He 
also  left  the  house  the  same  day,  moving,  as  Mrs.  Vardeman 
explained  at  the  supper  table,  nearer  the  vicinity  of  the 
downtown  theater,  where  A  Magnolia  Flower  was  booked 
for  a  week's  run. 

Critical  was  the  situation  with  Major  Talbot  and  Miss 
Lydia.  There  was  no  one  in  Washington  to  whom  the 
Major's  scruples  allowed  him  to  apply  for  a  loan.  Miss 
Lydia  wrote  a  letter  to  Uncle  Ralph,  but  it  was  doubtful 
whether  that  relative's  constricted  affairs  would  permit  him 
to  furnish  help.  The  Major  was  forced  to  make  an  apolo 
getic  address  to  Mrs.  Vardeman  regarding  the  delayed  pay 
ment  for  board,  referring  to  "delinquent  rentals"  and  "de 
layed  remittances"  in  a  rather  confused  strain. 

Deliverance  came  from  an  entirely  unexpected  source. 

Late  one  afternoon  the  door  maid  came  up  and  an 
nounced  an  old  colored  man  who  wanted  to  see  Major 


THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES  209 

Talbot.  The  Major  asked  that  he  be  sent  up  to  his  study. 
Soon  an  old  darkey  appeared  in  the  doorway,  with  his  hat 
in  hand,  bowing,  and  scraping  with  one  clumsy  foot.  He 
was  quite  decently  dressed  in  a  baggy  suit  of  black.  His 
big,  coarse  shoes  shone  with  a  metallic  luster  suggestive  of 
stove  polish.  His  bushy  wool  was  gray — almost  white. 
After  middle  life,  it  is  difficult  to  estimate  the  age  of  a 
negro.  This  one  might  have  seen  as  many  years  as  had 
Major  Talbot. 

"I  be  bound  you  don't  know  me,  Mars'  Pendleton,"  were 
bis  first  words. 

The  Major  rose  and  came  forward  at  the  old,  familiar 
style  of  address.  It  was  one  of  the  old  plantation  darkeys 
without  a  doubt;  but  they  had  been  widely  scattered,  and  he 
could  not  recall  the  voice  or  face. 

"I  don't  believe  I  do,"  he  said  kindly — "unless  you  will 
assist  my  memory." 

"Don't  you  'member  Cindy's  Mose,  Mars'  Pendleton, 
what  'migrated  'mediately  after  de  war?" 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  the  Major,  rubbing  his  forehead 
with  the  tips  of  his  fingers.  He  loved  to  recall  everything 
connected  with  those  beloved  days.  "Cindy's  Mose,"  he 
reflected.  "You  worked  among  the  horses — breaking  the 
colts.  Yes,  I  remember  now.  After  the  surrender,  you  took 
the  name  of — don't  prompt  me — Mitchell,  and  went  to  the 
West — to  Nebraska." 

"Yassir,  yassir," — the  old  man's  face  stretched  with  a  de 
lighted  grin — "dat's  him,  dat's  it.  Newbraska.  Dat's  me 
— Mose  Mitchell.  Old  Uncle  Mose  Mitchell,  dey  calls  me 
now.  Old  mars',  your  pa,  gimme  a  pah  of  dem  mule  colts 
when  I  lef  fur  to  staht  me  goin'  with.  You  'member  dent 
colts,  Mars'  Pendleton?" 

"I  don't  seem  to  recall  the  colts,"  said  the  Major.  "You 
know.  I  was  married  the  first  year  of  the  war  and  living  at 
the  old  Follinsbee  place.  But  sit  down,  sit  down,  Uncle 
Mose.  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I  hope  you  have  prospered." 

Uncle  Mose  took  a  chair  and  laid  his  hat  carefully  o* 
the  floor  beside  it. 

"Yessir;   of  late  I  done  mouty  femous.     When  I  first 


2io    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

got  to  Newbraska,  dey  folks  come  all  roun'  me  to  see  dem 
mule  colts.  Dey  ain't  see  no  mules  like  dem  in  Newbraska. 
I  sold  dem  mules  for  three  hundred  dollars.  Yessir — three 
hundred. 

"Den  I  open  a  blacksmith  shop,  suh,  and  made  some 
money  and  bought  some  Ian'.  Me  and  my  old  'oman  done 
raised  up  seb'm  chillun,  and  all  doin'  well  'cept  two  of  'em 
what  died.  Fo'  year  ago  a  railroad  come  along  'and  staht 
a  town  slam  ag'inst  my  Ian',  and,  suh,  Mars'  Pendleton, 
Uncle  Mose  am  worth  leb'm  thousand  dollars  in  money, 
property,  and  Ian'." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  the  Major  heartily.  "Glad  to 
hear  it." 

"And  dat  little  baby  of  yo'n,  Mars'  Pendleton — one  what 
you  name  Miss  Lyddy — I  be  bound  dat  little  tad  done 
growed  up  tell  nobody  wouldn't  know  her." 

The  Major  stepped  to  the  door  and  called:  "Lydie,  dear, 
will  you  come?" 

Miss  Lydia,  looking  quite  grown  up  and  a  little  worried, 
came  in  from  her  room. 

"Dar,  now!  What'd  I  tell  you?  I  knowed  dat  baby 
done  be  plum  growed  up.  You  don't  'member  Uncle  Mose, 
child?" 

"This  is  Aunt  Cindy's  Mose.  Lydia,"  explained  the  Major. 
"He  left  Sunnymead  for  the  West  when  you  were  two 
years  old." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Lydia,  "I  can  hardly  be  expected  to 
remember  you,  Uncle  Mose,  at  that  age.  And,  as  you  say, 
I'm  'plum  growed  up,'  and  was  a  blessed  long  time  ago. 
But  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  even  if  I  can't  remember  you." 

And  she  was.  And  so  was  the  Major.  Something  alive 
and  tangible  had  come  to  link  them  with  the  happy  past. 
The  three  sat  and  talked  over  the  olden  times,  the  Major 
and  Uncle  Mose  correcting  or  prompting  each  other  as  they 
reviewed  the  plantation  scenes  and  days. 

The  Major  inquired  what  the  old  man  was  doing  so  far 
from  his  home. 

"Uncle  Mose  am  a  delicate,"  he  explained,  "to  de  grand 
Baptis'  convention  in  dis  city.  I  never  preached  none,  but 


THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES  211 

bein'  a  residin'  elder  in  de  church,  and  able  fur  to  pay  my 
own  expenses,  dey  sent  me  along.1" 

"And  how  did  you  know  we  were  in  Washington?"  in 
quired  Miss  Lydia. 

"Dey's  a  cullud  man  works  in  de  hotel  whar  I  stops,  what 
comes  from  Mobile.  He  told  me  he  seen  Mars'  Pendleton 
comin'  outen  dish  here  house  one  mawnin'. 

"What  I  come  fur,"  continued  Uncle  Mose,  reaching  into 
his  pocket — "besides  de  sight  of  home  folks — was  to  pay 
Mars'  Pendleton  what  I  owes  him. 

"Yessir — three  hundred  dollars."  He  handed  the  Major 
a  roll  of  bills.  "When  I  lef  old  mars'  says:  'Take  dem 
mule  colts,  Mose,  and,  if  it  be  so  you  gits  able,  pay  fur  'em.' 
Yessir — dem  was  his  words.  De  war  had  done  lef  old  mars' 
po'  hisself.  Old  mars'  bein'  long  ago  dead,  de  debt  descends 
to  Mars'  Pendleton.  Three  hundred  dollars.  Uncle  Mose 
is  plenty  able  to  pay  now.  When  dat  railroad  buy  my  Ian' 
I  laid  off  to  pay  fur  dem  mules.  Count  de  money,  Mars* 
Pendleton.  Dat's  what  I  sold  dem  mules  fur.  Yessir." 

Tears  were  in  Major  Talbot's  eyes.  He  took  Uncle 
Mose's  hand  and  laid  his  other  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Dear,  faithful,  old  servitor,"  he  said  in  an  unsteady 
voice,  "I  don't  mind  saying  to  you  that  'Mars'  Pendleton' 
spent  his  last  dollar  in  the  world  a  week  ago.  We  will  ac 
cept  this  money,  Uncle  Mose,  since,  in  a  way,  it  is  a  sort  of 
payment,  as  well  as  a  token  of  the  loyalty  and  devotion  of 
the  old  regime.  Lydia,  my  dear,  take  the  money.  You  are 
better  fitted  than  I  to  manage  its  expenditure." 

"Take  it,  honey,"  said  Uncle  Mose.  "Hit  belongs  to  you. 
Hit's  Talbot  money." 

After  Uncle  Mose  had  gone,  Miss  Lydia  had  a  good  cry — 
for  joy;  and  the  Major  turned  his  face  to  a  corner,  and 
smoked  his  clay  pipe  volcanically. 

The  succeeding  days  saw  the  Talbots  restored  to  peace 
and  ease.  Miss  Lydia's  face  lost  its  worried  look.  The 
major  appeared  in  a  new  frock  coat,  in  which  he  looked  like 
a  wax  figure  personifying  the  memory  of  his  golden  age. 
Another  publisher  who  read  the  manuscript  of  the  Anec 
dotes  and  Reminiscences  thought  that,  with  a  little  re- 


212    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

touching  and  toning  down  of  the  high  lights,  he  could  make 
a  really  bright  and  salable  volume  of  it.  Altogether,  the 
situation  was  comfortable,  and  not  without  the  touch  of 
hope  that  is  often  sweeter  than  arrived  blessings. 

One  day,  about  a  week  after  their  piece  of  good  luck,  a 
maid  brought  a  letter  for  Miss  Lydia  to  her  room.  The 
postmark  showed  that  it  was  from  New  York.  Not  know 
ing  any  one  there,  Miss  Lydia,  in  a  mild  flutter  of  won 
der,  sat  down  by  her  table  and  opened  the  letter  with  her 
scissors.  This  was  what  she  read: 

DEAR  Miss  TALBOT: 

I  thought  you  might  be  glad  to  learn  of  my  good  fortune.  I 
have  received  and  accepted  an  offer  of  two  hundred  dollars  per 
week  by  a  New  York  stock  company  to  play  Colonel  Calhoun 
in  A  Magnolia  Flower. 

There  is  something  else  I  wanted  you  to  know.  I  guess  you'd 
better  not  tell  Major  Talbot.  I  was  anxious  to  make  him  some 
amends  for  the  great  help  he  was  to  me  in  studying  the  part, 
and  for  the  bad  humor  he  was  in  about  it.  He  refused  to  let 
me,  so  I  did  it  anyhow.  I  could  easily  spare  the  three  hundred. 
Sincerely  yours, 

H.  HOPKINS  HARGRAVES. 
P.S.    How  did  I  play  Uncle  Mose? 

Major  Talbot,  passing  through  the  hall,  saw  Miss  Lydia's 
door  open  and  stopped. 

"Any  mail  for  us  this  morning,  Lydia,  dear?"  he  asked. 

Miss  Lydia  slid  the  letter  beneath  a  fold  of  her  dress. 

"The  Mobile  Chronicle  came,"  she  said  promptly.  "It's 
<MI  the  table  in  your  study," 


BARGAIN  DAY  AT  TUTT 
HOUSE 

BY  GEORGE  RANDOLPH  CHESTER  (1869-        ) 
I 

JUST  as  the  stage  rumbled  over  the  rickety  old  bridge, 
creaking  and  groaning,  the  sun  came  from  behind  the 
clouds  that  had  frowned  all  the  way,  and  the  passengers 
cheered  up  a  bit.  The  two  richly  dressed  matrons  who  had 
been  so  utterly  and  unnecessarily  oblivious  to  the  presence  of 
each  other  now  suspended  hostilities  for  the  moment  by  mu 
tual  and  unspoken  consent,  and  viewed  with  relief  the  little, 
golden-tinted  valley  and  the  tree-clad  road  just  beyond.  The 
respective  husbands  of  these  two  ladies  exchanged  a  mere 
glance,  no  more,  of  comfort.  They,  too,  were  relieved, 
though  more  by  the  momentary  truce  than  by  anything 
else.  They  regretted  very  much  to  be  compelled  to  hate 
each  other,  for  each  had  reckoned  up  his  vis-a-vis  as  a 
rather  proper  sort  of  fellow,  probably  a  man  of  some  achieve 
ment,  used  to  good  living  and  good  company. 

Extreme  iciness  was  unavoidable  between  them,  however. 
When  one  stranger  has  a  splendidly  preserved  blonde  wife 
and  the  other  a  splendidly  preserved  brunette  wife,  both  of 
whom  have  won  social  prominence  by  years  of  hard  fighting 
and  aloofness,  there  remains  nothing  for  the  two  men  but  to 
follow  the  lead,  especially  when  directly  under  the  eyes  of 
the  leaders. 

The  son  of  the  blonde  matron  smiled  cheerfully  as  the 
welcome  light  flooded  the  coach. 

He  was  a  nice-looking  young  man,  of  about  twenty-two, 
one  might  judge,  and  he  did  his  smiling,  though  in  a  perfectly 

From  McClure's  Magazine,  June,  1905 ;  copyright,  1905,  by  the 
S.  S.  McClure  Co.;  republished  by  the  author's  permission. 

213 


214    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

impersonal  and  correct  sort  of  manner,  at  the  pretty  daugh 
ter  of  the  brunette  matron.  The  pretty  daughter  also 
smiled,  but  her  smile  was  demurely  directed  at  the  trees  out 
side,  clad  as  they  were  in  all  the  flaming  glory  of  their 
autumn  tints,  glistening  with  the  recent  rain  and  dripping 
•with  gems  that  sparkled  and  flashed  in  the  noonday  sun  as 
they  fell. 

It  is  marvelous  how  much  one  can  see  out  of  the  corner 
of  the  eye,  while  seeming  to  view  mere  scenery. 

The  driver  looked  down,  as  he  drove  safely  off  the  bridge, 
and  shook  his  head  at  the  swirl  of  water  that  rushed  and 
eddied,  dark  and  muddy,  close  up  under  the  rotten  planking; 
then  he  cracked  his  whip,  and  the  horses  sturdily  attacked 
the  little  hill. 

Thick,  overhanging  trees  on  either  side  now  dimmed  the 
light  again,  and  the  two  plump  matrons  once  more  glared 
past  the  opposite  shoulders,  profoundly  unaware  of  each 
other.  The  husbands  took  on  the  politely  surly  look  re 
quired  of  them.  The  blonde  son's  eyes  still  sought  the 
brunette  daughter,  but  it  was  furtively  done  and  quite  un 
successfully,  for  the  daughter  was  now  doing  a  little  glaring 
on  her  own  account.  The  blonde  matron  had  just  swept 
her  eyes  across  the  daughter's  skirt,  estimating  the  fit  and 
material  of  it  with  contempt  so  artistically  veiled  that  it 
could  almost  be  understood  in  the  dark. 

II 

The  big  bays  swung  to  the  brow  of  the  hill  with  ease, 
and  dashed  into  a  small  circular  clearing,  where  a  quaint 
little  two-story  building,  with  a  mossy  watering-trough  out 
in  front,  nestled  under  the  shade  of  majestic  old  trees  that 
reared  their  brown  and  scarlet  crowns  proudly  into  the  sky. 
A  long,  low  porch  ran  across  the  front  of  the  structure,  and 
a  complaining  sign  hung  out  announcing,  in  dim,  weather- 
flecked  letters  on  a  cracked  board,  that  this  was  the  "Tutt 
House."  A  gray-headed  man,  in  brown  overalls  and  faded 
blue  jumper,  stood  on  the  porch  and  shook  his  fist  at  the 
stage  as  it  whirled  by. 


BARGAIN  DAY  AT  TUTT  HOUSE     215 

"What  a  delightfully  old-fashioned  inn!"  exclaimed  the 
pretty  daughter.  "How  I  should  like  to  stop  there  over 
night!" 

"You  would  probably  wish  yourself  away  before  morning, 
Evelyn,"  replied  her  mother  indifferently.  "No  doubt  it 
would  be  a  mere  siege  of  discomfort." 

The  blonde  matron  turned  to  her  husband.  The  pretty 
daughter  had  been  looking  at  the  picturesque  "inn"  between 
the  heads  of  this  lady  and  her  son. 

"Edward,  please  pull  down  the  shade  behind  me,"  she 
directed.  "There  is  quite  a  draught  from  that  broken  win 
dow." 

The  pretty  daughter  bit  her  lip.  The  brunette  matron 
continued  to  stare  at  the  shade  in  the  exact  spot  upon  which 
her  gaze  had  been  before  directed,  and  she  never  quivered 
an  eyelash.  The  young  man  seemed  very  uncomfortable, 
and  he  tried  to  look  his  apologies  to  the  pretty  daughter, 
but  she  could  not  see  him  now,  not  even  if  her  eyes  had 
been  all  corners. 

They  were  bowling  along  through  another  avenue  of  trees 
when  the  driver  suddenly  shouted,  "Whoa  there!" 

The  horses  were  brought  up  with  a  jerk  that  was  well 
nigh  fatal  to  the  assortment  of  dignity  inside  the  coach.  A 
loud  roaring  could  be  heard,  both  ahead  and  in  the  rear,  a 
sharp  splitting  like  a  fusillade  of  pistol  shots,  then  a  creaking 
and  tearing  of  timbers.  The  driver  bent  suddenly  forward. 

"Gid  ap!"  he  cried,  and  the  horses  sprang  forward  with  a 
lurch.  He  swung  them  around  a  sharp  bend  with  a  skillful 
hand  and  poised  his  weight  above  the  brake  as  they  plunged 
at  terrific  speed  down  a  steep  grade.  The  roaring  was 
louder  than  ever  now,  and  it  became  deafening  as  they  sud 
denly  emerged  from  the  thick  underbrush  at  the  bottom  of 
the  declivity. 

"Caught,  by  gravy!"  ejaculated  the  driver,  and,  for  the 
second  time,  he  brought  the  coach  to  an  abrupt  stop. 

"Do  see  what  is  the  matter,  Ralph,"  said  the  blonde  ma 
tron  impatiently. 

Thus  commanded,  the  young  man  swung  out  and  asked 
the  driver  about  it. 


216    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"Paintsville  dam's  busted,"  he  was  informed.  "I  been 
a-lookin'  fer  it  this  many  a  year,  an'  this  here  freshet  done 
it.  You  see  the  holler  there?  Well,  they's  ten  foot  o' 
water  in  it,  an'  it  had  ort  to  be  stone  dry.  The  bridge  is 
tore  out  behind  us,  an'  we're  stuck  here  till  that  water  runs 
out.  We  can't  git  away  till  to-morry,  anyways." 

He  pointed  out  the  peculiar  topography  of  the  place,  and 
Ralph  got  back  in  the  coach. 

"We're  practically  on  a  flood-made  island,"  he  exclaimed, 
with  one  eye  on  the  pretty  daughter,  "and  we  shall  have 
to  stop  over  night  at  that  quaint,  old-fashioned  inn  we  passed 
a  few  moments  ago." 

The  pretty  daughter's  eyes  twinkled,  and  he  thought  he 
caught  a  swift,  direct  gleam  from  under  the  long  lashes — 
but  he  was  not  sure. 

"Dear  me,  how  annoying,"  said  the  blonde  matron,  but 
the  brunette  matron  still  stared,  without  the  slightest  trace 
of  interest  in  anything  else,  at  the  infinitesimal  spot  she 
had  selected  on  the  affronting  window-shade. 

The  two  men  gave  sighs  of  resignation,  and  cast  carefully 
concealed  glances  at  each  other,  speculating  on  the  possi 
bility  of  a  cigar  and  a  glass,  and  maybe  a  good  story  or 
two,  or  possibly  even  a  game  of  poker  after  the  evening 
meal.  Who  could  tell  what  might  or  might  not  happen? 

Ill 

When  the  stage  drew  up  in  front  of  the  little  hotel,  it 
found  Uncle  Billy  Tutt  prepared  for  his  revenge.  In  former 
days  the  stage  had  always  stopped  at  the  Tutt  House  for 
the  noonday  meal.  Since  the  new  railway  was  built  through 
the  adjoining  county,  however,  the  stage  trip  became  a 
mere  twelve-mile,  cross-country  transfer  from  one  railroad 
to  another,  and  the  stage  made  a  later  trip,  allowing  the 
passengers  plenty  of  time  for  "dinner"  before  they  started. 
Day  after  day,  as  the  coach  flashed  by  with  its  money-laden 
passengers,  Uncle  Billy  had  hoped  that  it  would  break  down. 
But  this  was  better,  much  better.  The  coach  might  be 
quickly  mended,  but  not  the  flood. 


BARGAIN  DAY  AT  TUTT  HOUSE     2iy 

"I'm  a-goin'  t'  charge  'em  till  they  squeal,"  he  declared 
to  the  timidly  protesting  Aunt  Margaret,  "an'  then  I'm  goin' 
t'  charge  'em  a  least  mite  more,  drat  'em!" 

He  retreated  behind  the  rough  wooden  counter  that  did 
duty  as  a  desk,  slammed  open  the  flimsy,  paper-bound 
"cash  book"  that  served  as  a  register,  and  planted  his  elbows 
uncompromisingly  on  either  side  of  it. 

"Let  'em  bring  in  their  own  traps,"  he  commented,  and 
Aunt  Margaret  fled,  ashamed  and  conscience-smitten,  to  the 
kitchen.  It  seemed  awful. 

The  first  one  out  of  the  coach  was  the  husband  of  the 
brunette  matron,  and,  proceeding  under  instructions,  he 
waited  neither  for  luggage  nor  women  folk,  but  hurried 
straight  into  the  Tutt  House.  The  other  man  would  have 
been  neck  and  neck  with  him  in  the  race,  if  it  had  not  been 
that  he  paused  to  seize  two  suitcases  and  had  the  misfor 
tune  to  drop  one,  which  burst  open  and  scattered  a  choice 
assortment  of  lingerie  from  one  end  of  the  dingy  coach  to 
the  other. 

In  the  confusion  of  rescuing  the  fluffery,  the  owner  of  the 
suitcase  had  to  sacrifice  her  hauteur  and  help  her  husband 
and  son  block  up  the  aisle,  while  the  other  matron  had  the 
ineffable  satisfaction  of  being  kept  waiting,  at  last  being 
enabled  to  say,  sweetly  and  with  the  most  polite  consider 
ation  : 

"Will  you  kindly  allow  me  to  pass?" 

The  blonde  matron  raised  up  and  swept  her  skirts  back 
perfectly  flat.  She  was  pale  but  collected.  Her  husband 
was  pink  but  collected.  Her  son  was  crimson  and  uncol- 
lected.  The  brunette  daughter  could  not  have  found  an  eye 
anywhere  in  his  countenance  as  she  rustled  out  after  her 
mother. 

"I  do  hope  that  Belmont  has  been  able  to  secure  choice 
quarters,"  the  triumphing  matron  remarked  as  her  daughter 
joined  her  on  the  ground.  "This  place  looked  so  very  small 
that  there  can  scarcely  be  more  than  one  comfortable  suite 
in  it." 

It  was  a  vital  thrust.  Only  a  splendidly  cultivated  self- 
control  prevented  the  blonde  matron  from  retaliating  upon 


2i8    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

the  unfortunate  who  had  muddled  things.  Even  so,  her  eyes 
spoke  whole  shelves  of  volumes. 

The  man  who  first  reached  the  register  wrote,  in  a  straight 
black  scrawl,  "J.  Belmont  Van  Kamp,  wife,  and  daughter." 
There  being  no  space  left  for  his  address,  he  put  none 
down. 

"I  want  three  adjoining  rooms,  en  suite  if  possible,"  he 
demanded. 

"Three!"  exclaimed  Uncle  Billy,  scratching  his  head. 
"Won't  two  do  ye?  I  ain't  got  but  six  bedrooms  in  th' 
house.  Me  an'  Marg't  sleeps  in  one,  an'  we're  a-gittin'  too 
old  fer  a  shake-down  on  th'  floor.  I'll  have  t'  save  one 
room  fer  th'  driver,  an'  that  leaves  four.  You  take  two 
now— 

Mr.  Van  Kamp  cast  a  hasty  glance  out  of  the  window. 
The  other  man  was  getting  out  of  the  coach.  His  own  wife 
was  stepping  on  the  porch. 

"What  do  you  ask  for  meals  and  lodging  until  this  time 
to-morrow?"  he  interrupted. 

The  decisive  moment  had  arrived.  Uncle  Billy  drew  a 
deep  breath. 

"Two  dollars  a  head!"  he  defiantly  announced.  There! 
It  was  out!  He  wished  Margaret  had  stayed  to  hear  him 
say  it. 

The  guest  did  not  seem  to  be  seriously  shocked,  and 
Uncle  Billy  was  beginning  to  be  sorry  he  had  not  said  three 
dollars,  when  Mr.  Van  Kamp  stopped  the  landlord's  own 
breath. 

"I'll  give  you  fifteen  dollars  for  the  three  best  rooms  in 
the  house,"  he  calmly  said,  and  Landlord  Tutt  gasped  as  the 
money  fluttered  down  under  his  nose. 

"Jis'  take  yore  folks  right  on  up,  Mr.  Kamp,"  said  Uncle 
Billy,  pouncing  on  the  money.  "Th'  rooms  is  th'  three  right 
along  th'  hull  front  o'  th'  house.  I'll  be  up  and  make  on  a 
fire  in  a  minute.  Jis'  take  th'  Jonesmlle  Banner  an'  th' 
Uticky  Clarion  along  with  ye." 

As  the  swish  of  skirts  marked  the  passage  of  the  Van 
Kamps  up  the  wide  hall  stairway,  the  other  party  swept 
into  the  room. 


BARGAIN  DAY  AT  TUTT  HOUSE     219 

The  man  wrote,  in  a  round  flourish,  "Edward  Eastman 
Ellsworth,  wife,  and  son." 

"I'd  like  three  choice  rooms,  en  suite,"  he  said. 

"Gosh!"  said  Uncle  Billy,  regretfully.  "That's  what  Mr. 
Kamp  wanted,  fust  off,  an'  he  got  it.  They  hain't  but  th' 
little  room  over  th'  kitchen  left.  I'll  have  to  put  you  an' 
your  wife  in  that,  an'  let  your  boy  sleep  with  th'  driver." 

The  consternation  in  the  Ellsworth  party  was  past  cal 
culating  by  any  known  standards  of  measurement.  The 
thing  was  an  outrage!  It  was  not  to  be  borne!  They 
would  not  submit  to  it! 

Uncle  Billy,  however,  secure  in  his  mastery  of  the  situa 
tion,  calmly  quartered  them  as  he  had  said.  "An'  let  'em 
splutter  all  they  want  to,"  he  commented  comfortably  to 
himself. 

W 

The  Ellsworths  were  holding  a  family  indignation  meeting 
on  the  broad  porch  when  the  Van  Kamps  came  contentedly 
down  for  a  walk,  and  brushed  by  them  with  unseeing  eyes. 

"It  makes  a  perfectly  fascinating  suite,"  observed  Mrs. 
Van  Kamp,  in  a  pleasantly  conversational  tone  that  could 
be  easily  overheard  by  anyone  impolite  enough  to  listen. 
"That  delightful  old-fashioned  fireplace  hi  the  middle  apart 
ment  makes  it  an  ideal  sitting-room,  and  the  beds  are  so 
roomy  and  comfortable." 

"I  just  knew  it  would  be  like  this! "  chirruped  Miss  Evelyn. 
"I  remarked  as  we  passed  the  place,  if  you  will  remember, 
how  charming  it  would  be  to  stop  in  this  dear,  quaint  old 
inn  over  night.  All  my  wishes  seem  to  come  true  this 
year." 

These  simple  and,  of  course,  entirely  unpremeditated  re 
marks  were  as  vinegar  and  wormwood  to  Mrs.  Ellsworth, 
and  she  gazed  after  the  retreating  Van  Kamps  with  a  glint 
in  her  eye  that  would  make  one  understand  Lucretia  Borgia 
at  last. 

Her  son  also  gazed  after  the  retreating  Van  Kamo.  She 
had  an  exquisite  figure,  and  she  carried  herself  with  a  most 


220    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

delectable  grace.  As  the  party  drew  away  from  the  inn  she 
dropped  behind  the  elders  and  wandered  off  into  a  side  path 
to  gather  autumn  leaves. 

Ralph,  too,  started  off  for  a  walk,  but  naturally  not  in 
the  same  direction. 

"Edward!"  suddenly  said  Mrs.  Ellsworth.  "I  want  you 
to  turn  those  people  out  of  that  suite  before  night!" 

"Very  well,"  he  replied  with  a  sigh,  and  got  up  to  do  it. 
He  had  wrecked  a  railroad  and  made  one,  and  had  operated 
successful  corners  in  nutmegs  and  chicory.  No  task  seemed 
impossible.  He  walked  in  to  see  the  landlord. 

"What  are  the  Van  Kamps  paying  you  for  those  three 
rooms?"  he  asked. 

"Fifteen  dollars,"  Uncle  Billy  informed  him,  smoking  one 
of  Mr.  Van  Kamp's  good  cigars  and  twiddling  his  thumbs 
in  huge  content. 

"I'll  give  you  thirty  for  them.  Just  set  their  baggage 
outside  and  tell  them  the  rooms  are  occupied." 

"No  sir-ree!"  rejoined  Uncle  Billy.  "A  bargain's  a  bar 
gain,  an'  I  allus  stick  to  one  I  make." 

Mr.  Ellsworth  withdrew,  but  not  defeated.  He  had  never 
supposed  that  such  an  absurd  proposition  would  be  accepted. 
It  was  only  a  feeler,  and  he  had  noticed  a  wince  of  regret  in 
his  landlord.  He  sat  down  on  the  porch  and  lit  a  strong 
cigar.  His  wife  did  not  bother  him.  She  gazed  compla 
cently  at  the  flaming  foliage  opposite,  and  allowed  him  to 
think.  Getting  impossible  things  was  his  business  in  life, 
and  she  had  confidence  in  him. 

"I  want  to  rent  your  entire  house  for  a  week,"  he  an 
nounced  to  Uncle  Billy  a  few  minutes  later.  It  had  occurred 
to  him  that  the  flood  might  last  longer  than  they  antici 
pated. 

Uncle  Billy's  eyes  twinkled. 

"I  reckon  it  kin  be  did,"  he  allowed.  "I  reckon  a  /ro-tel 
man's  got  a  right  to  rent  his  hull  house  ary  minute." 

"Of  course  he  has.     How  much  do  you  want?" 

Uncle  Billy  had  made  one  mistake  in  not  asking  this  sort 
of  folks  enough,  and  he  reflected  in  perplexity. 

"Make  me  a  offer,"  he  proposed.     "Ef  it  hain't  enough 


BARGAIN  DAY  AT  TUTT  HOUSE  221 

I'll  tell  ye.  You  want  to  rent  th'  hull  place,  back  lot  an' 
all?" 

"No,  just  the  mere  house.  That  will  be  enough,"  an 
swered  the  other  with  a  smile.  He  was  on  the  point  of 
offering  a  hundred  dollars,  when  he  saw  the  little  wrinkles 
about  Mr.  Tutt's  eyes,  and  he  said  seventy-five. 

"Sho,  ye're  jokin'!"  retorted  Uncle  Billy.  He  had  been 
considered  a  fine  horse-trader  in  that  part  of  the  country, 
"Make  it  a  hundred  and  twenty-five,  an'  I'll  go  ye." 

Mr.  Ellsworth  counted  out  some  bills. 

"Here's  a  hundred,"  he  said.  "That  ought  to  be  about 
right." 

"Fifteen  more,"  insisted  Uncle  Billy. 

With  a  little  frown  of  impatience  the  other  counted  off 
the  extra  money  and  handed  it  over.  Uncle  Billy  gravely 
handed  it  back. 

"Them's  the  fifteen  dollars  Mr.  Kamp  give  me,"  he  ex 
plained.  "You've  got  the  hull  house  fer  a  week,  an'  o' 
course  all  th'  money  that's  tooken  in  is  your'n.  You  kin 
do  as  ye  please  about  rentin'  out  rooms  to  other  folks,  I 
reckon.  A  bargain's  a  bargain,  an'  I  allus  stick  to  one  I 
make." 


Ralph  Ellsworth  stalked  among  the  trees,  feverishly  search 
ing  for  squirrels,  scarlet  leaves,  and  the  glint  of  a  brown 
walking-dress,  this  last  not  being  so  easy  to  locate  in  sunlit 
autumn  woods.  Time  after  time  he  quickened  his  pace, 
only  to  find  that  he  had  been  fooled  by  a  patch  of  dog 
wood,  a  clump  of  haw  bushes  or  even  a  leaf-strewn  knoll, 
but  at  last  he  unmistakably  saw  the  dress,  and  then  he 
slowed  down  to  a  careless  saunter. 

She  was  reaching  up  for  some  brilliantly  colored  maple 
leaves,  and  was  entirely  unconscious  of  his  presence,  espe 
cially  after  she  had  seen  him.  Her  pose  showed  her  pretty 
figure  to  advantage,  but,  of  course,  she  did  not  know  that. 
How  should  she? 

Ralph  admired  the  picture  very  much.     The  hat,  the 


222    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

hair,  the  gown,  the  dainty  shoes,  even  the  narrow  strip  of 
silken  hose  that  was  revealed  as  she  stood  a- tiptoe,  were 
all  of  a  deep,  rich  brown  that  proved  an  exquisite  foil  for 
the  pink  and  cream  of  her  cheeks.  He  remembered  that 
her  eyes  were  almost  the  same  shade,  and  wondered  how 
it  was  that  women-folk  happened  on  combinations  in  dress 
that  so  well  set  off  their  natural  charms.  The  fool! 

He  was  about  three  trees  away,  now,  and  a  panic  akin  to 
that  which  hunters  describe  as  "buck  ague"  seized  him.  He 
decided  that  he  really  had  no  excuse  for  coming  any  nearer. 
It  would  not  do,  either,  to  be  seen  staring  at  her  if  she 
should  happen  to  turn  her  head,  so  he  veered  off,  intending 
to  regain  the  road.  It  would  be  impossible  to  do  this  with 
out  passing  directly  in  her  range  of  vision,  and  he  did  not 
intend  to  try  to  avoid  it.  He  had  a  fine,  manly  figure  of  his 
own. 

He  had  just  passed  the  nearest  radius  to  her  circle  and 
was  proceeding  along  the  tangent  that  he  had  laid  out  for 
himself,  when  the  unwitting  maid  looked  carefully  down 
and  saw  a  tangle  of  roots  at  her  very  feet.  She  was  so  un 
fortunate,  a  second  later,  as  to  slip  her  foot  in  this  very 
tangle  and  give  her  ankle  ever  so  slight  a  twist. 

"Oh!"  cried  Miss  Van  Kamp,  and  Ralph  Ellsworth  flew 
to  the  rescue.  He  had  not  been  noticing  her  at  all,  and  yet  he 
had  started  to  her  side  before  she  had  even  cried  out,  which 
was  strange.  She  had  a  very  attractive  voice. 

"May  I  be  of  assistance?"  he  anxiously  inquired. 

"I  think  not,  thank  you,"  she  replied,  compressing  her  lips 
to  keep  back  the  intolerable  pain,  and  half-closing  her  eyes 
to  show  the  fine  lashes.  Declining  the  proffered  help,  she 
extricated  her  foot,  picked  up  her  autumn  branches,  and 
turned  away.  She  was  intensely  averse  to  anything  that 
could  be  construed  as  a  flirtation,  even  of  the  mildest,  he 
could  certainly  see  that.  She  took  a  step,  swayed  slightly, 
dropped  the  leaves,  and  clutched  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"It  is  nothing,"  she  assured  him  in  a  moment,  withdraw 
ing  the  hand  after  he  had  held  it  quite  long  enough.  "Noth 
ing  whatever.  I  gave  my  foot  a  slight  wrench,  and  turned 
the  least  bit  faint  for  a  moment." 


BARGAIN  DAY  AT  TUTT  HOUSE     2:  3 

"You  must  permit  me  to  walk  back,  at  least  to  the  road, 
with  you,"  he  insisted,  gathering  up  her  armload  of  branches. 
"I  couldn't  think  of  leaving  you  here  alone." 

As  he  stooped  to  raise  the  gay  woodland  treasures  he 
smiled  to  himself,  ever  so  slightly.  This  was  not  his  first 
season  out,  either. 

"Delightful  spot,  isn't  it?"  he  observed  as  they  regained 
the  road  and  sauntered  in  the  direction  of  the  Tutt  House. 

"Quite  so,"  she  reservedly  answered.  She  had  noticed 
that  smile  as  he  stooped.  He  must  be  snubbed  a  little.  It 
would  be  so  good  for  him. 

"You  don't  happen  to  know  Billy  Evans,  of  Boston,  do 
you?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  not.     I  am  but  very  little  acquainted  in  Boston." 

"Too  bad,"  he  went  on.  "I  was  rather  in  hopes  you 
knew  Billy.  All  sorts  of  a  splendid  fellow,  and  knowr 
everybody." 

"Not  quite,  it  seems,"  she  reminded  him,  and  he  winced 
at  the  error.  In  spite  of  the  sly  smile  that  he  had  per 
mitted  to  himself,  he  was  unusually  interested. 

He  tried  the  weather,  the  flood,  the  accident,  golf,  books 
and  three  good,  substantial,  warranted  jokes,  but  the  con 
versation  lagged  in  spite  of  him.  Miss  Van  Kamp  would 
not  for  the  world  have  it  understood  that  this  unconven 
tional  meeting,  made  allowable  by  her  wrenched  ankle,  could 
possibly  fulfill  the  functions  of  a  formal  introduction. 

"What  a  ripping,  queer  old  building  that  is!"  he  ex 
claimed,  making  one  more  brave  effort  as  they  came  in 
sight  of  the  hotel. 

"It  is,  rather,"  she  assented.  "The  rooms  in  it  are  as 
quaint  and  delightful  as  the  exterior,  too." 

She  looked  as  harmless  and  innocent  as  a  basket  of  peaches 
as  she  said  it,  and  never  the  suspicion  of  a  smile  deepened 
the  dimple  in  the  cheek  toward  him.  The  smile  was  glow 
ing  cheerfully  away  inside,  though.  He  could  feel  it,  if  he 
could  not  see  it,  and  he  laughed  aloud. 

"Your  crowd  rather  got  the  better  of  us  there,"  he  ad 
mitted  with  the  keen  appreciation  of  one  still  quite  close 
to  college  days. 


224    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"Of  course,  the  mater  is  furious,  but  I  rather  look  on  it 
as  a  lark." 

She  thawed  like  an  April  icicle. 

"It's  perfectly  jolly,"  she  laughed  with  him.  "Awfully 
selfish  of  us,  too,  I  know,  but  such  loads  of  fun." 

They  were  close  to  the  Tutt  House  now,  and  her  limp, 
that  had  entirely  disappeared  as  they  emerged  from  the 
woods,  now  became  quite  perceptible.  There  might  be 
people  looking  out  of  the  windows,  though  it  is  hard  to 
see  why  that  should  affect  a  limp. 

Ralph  was  delighted  to  find  that  a  thaw  had  set  in,  and 
he  made  one  more  attempt  to  establish  at  least  a  proxy  ac 
quaintance. 

"You  don't  happen  to  know  Peyson  Kingsley,  of  Phila 
delphia,  do  you?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't,"  she  replied.  "I  know  so  few  Phila 
delphia  people,  you  see."  She  was  rather  regretful  about 
it  this  time.  He  really  was  a  clever  sort  of  a  fellow,  in 
spite  of  that  smile. 

The  center  window  in  the  second  floor  of  the  Tutt  House 
swung  open,  its  little  squares  of  glass  flashing  jubilantly  in 
the  sunlight.  Mrs.  Ellsworth  leaned  out  over  the  sill,  from 
the  quaint  old  sitting-room  of  the  Van  Kamp  apartments! 

"Oh,  Ralph!"  she  called  in  her  most  dulcet  tones. 
"Kindly  excuse  yourself  and  come  right  on  up  to  our  suite 
for  a  few  moments!" 

VI 

It  is  not  nearly  so  easy  to  take  a  practical  joke  as  to  per 
petrate  one.  Evelyn  was  sitting  thoughtfully  on  the  porch 
when  her  father  and  mother  returned.  Mrs.  Ellsworth  was 
sitting  at  the  center  window  above,  placidly  looking  out. 
Her  eyes  swept  carelessly  over  the  Van  Kamps,  and  uncon 
cernedly  passed  on  to  the  rest  of  the  landscape. 

Mrs.  Van  Kamp  gasped  and  clutched  the  arm  of  her  hus 
band.  There  was  no  need.  He,  too,  had  seen  the  appari 
tion.  Evelyn  now,  for  the  first  time,  saw  the  real  humor 
of  the  situation.  She  smiled  as  she  thought  of  Ralph.  She 


BARGAIN  DAY  AT  TUTT  HOUSE  22$ 

owed  him  one,  but  she  never  worried  about  her  debts.    She 
always  managed  to  get  them  paid,  principal  and  interest. 

Mr.  Van  Kamp  suddenly  glowered  and  strode  into  the 
Tutt  House.  Uncle  Billy  met  him  at  the  door,  reflectively 
chewing  a  straw,  and  handed  him  an  envelope.  Mr.  Van 
Kamp  tore  it  open  and  drew  out  a  note.  Three  five-dollar 
bills  came  out  with  it  and  fluttered  to  the  porch  floor.  This 
missive  confronted  him: 

MR.  J.  BELMONT  VAN  KAMP, 

DEAR  SIR:  This  is  to  notify  you  that  I  have  rented  the  entire 
Tutt  House  for  the  ensuing  week,  and  am  compelled  to  assume 
possession  of  the  three  second-floor  front  rooms.  Herewith  I 
am  enclosing  the  fifteen  dollars  you  paid  to  secure  the  suite. 
You  are  quite  welcome  to  make  use,  as  my  guest,  of  the  small 
room  over  the  kitchen.  You  will  find  your  luggage  in  that 
room.  Regretting  any  inconvenience  that  this  transaction  may 
cause  you,  I  am, 

Yours  respectfully, 

EDWARD  EASTMAN  ELLSWORTH. 

Mr.  Van  Kamp  passed  the  note  to  his  wife  and  sat  down 
OP  a  large  chair.  He  was  glad  that  the  chair  was  comfort 
able  and  roomy.  Evelyn  picked  up  the  bills  and  tucked  them 
into  her  waist.  She  never  overlooked  any  of  her  perquisites. 
Mrs.  Van  Kamp  read  the  note,  and  the  tip  of  her  nose 
became  white.  She  also  sat  down,  but  she  was  the  first  to 
find  her  voice. 

"Atrocious!"  she  exclaimed.  "Atrocious!  Simply  atro 
cious,  Belmont.  This  is  a  house  of  public  entertainment. 
They  can't  turn  us  out  in  this  high-minded  manner!  Isn't 
there  a  law  or  something  to  that  effect?" 

"It  wouldn't  matter  if  there  was,"  he  thoughtfully  re 
plied.  "This  fellow  Ellsworth  would  be  too  clever  to  be 
caught  by  it.  He  would  say  that  the  house  was  not  a 
hotel  but  a  private  residence  during  the  period  for  which 
he  has  rented  it." 

Personally,  he  rather  admired  Ellsworth.  Seemed  to  be  a 
resourceful  sort  of  chap  who  knew  how  to  make  money  be 
have  itself,  and  do  its  little  tricks  without  balking  in  the 
harness. 


226    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"Then  you  can  make  him  take  down  the  sign!"  his  wife 
declared. 

He  shook  his  head  decidedly. 

"It  wouldn't  do,  Belle,"  he  replied.  "It  would  be  spite, 
not  retaliation,  and  not  at  all  sportsmanlike.  The  course 
you  suggest  would  belittle  us  more  than  it  would  annoy 
them.  There  must  be  some  other  way." 

He  went  in  to  talk  with  Uncle  Billy. 

"I  want  to  buy  this  place,"  he  stated.     "Is  it  for  sale?" 

"It  sartin  is!"  replied  Uncle  Billy.  He  did  not  merely 
twinkle  this  time.  He  grinned. 

"How  much?" 

"Three  thousand  dollars."  Mr.  Tutt  was  used  to  charg 
ing  by  this  time,  and  he  betrayed  no  hesitation. 

"I'll  write  you  out  a  check  at  once,"  and  Mr.  Van  Kamp 
reached  in  his  pocket  with  the  reflection  that  the  spot,  after 
all,  was  an  ideal  one  for  a  quiet  summer  retreat. 

"Air  you  a-goin'  t'  scribble  that  there  three  thou- 
san'  on  a  piece  o'  paper?"  inquired  Uncle  Billy,  sitting 
bolt  upright.  "Ef  you  air  a-figgerin'  on  that,  Mr.  Kamp, 
jis'  you  save  yore  time.  I  give  a  man  four  dollars  fer  one 
o'  them  check  things  oncet,  an'  I  owe  myself  them  four 
dollars  yit." 

Mr.  Van  Kamp  retired  in  disorder,  but  the  thought  of 
his  wife  and  daughter  waiting  confidently  on  the  porch 
stopped  him.  Moreover,  the  thing  had  resolved  itself  rather 
into  a  contest  between  Ellsworth  and  himself,  and  he  had 
done  a  little  making  and  breaking  of  men  and  things  in  his 
own  time.  He  did  some  gatling-gun  thinking  out  by  the 
newel-post,  and  presently  rejoined  Uncle  Billy. 

"Mr.  Tutt,  tell  me  just  exactly  what  Mr.  Ellsworth  rented, 
please,"  he  requested. 

"Th'  hull  house,"  replied  Billy,  and  then  he  somewhat 
sternly  added:  "Paid  me  spot  cash  fer  it,  too." 

Mr.  Van  Kamp  took  a  wad  of  loose  bills  from  his  trous 
ers  pocket,  straightened  them  out  leisurely,  and  placed  them 
in  his  bill  book,  along  with  some  smooth  yellowbacks  of  eye- 
bulging  denominations.  Uncle  Billy  sat  up  and  stopped 
twiddling  his  thumbs. 


BARGAIN  DAY  AT  TUTT  HOUSE     227 

"Nothing  was  said  about  the  furniture,  was  there?" 
suavely  inquired  Van  Kamp. 

Uncle  Billy  leaned  blankly  back  in  his  chair.  Little  by 
Jittle  the  light  dawned  on  the  ex-horse-trader.  The  crow's 
feet  reappeared  about  his  eyes,  his  mouth  twitched,  he 
smiled,  he  grinned,  then  he  slapped  his  thigh  and  haw- 
hawed. 

"No!"  roared  Uncle  Billy.    "No,  there  wasn't,  by  gum!" 

"Nothing  but  the  house?" 

"His  very  own  words!"  chuckled  Uncle  Billy.  "  'Jis'  th' 
mere  house,'  says  he,  an'  he  gits  it.  A  bargain's  a  bargain, 
an'  I  allus  stick  to  one  I  make." 

"How  much  for  the  furniture  for  the  week?" 

"Fifty  dollars!"  Mr.  Tutt  knew  how  to  do  business  with 
this  kind  of  people  now,  you  bet. 

Mr.  Van  Kamp  promptly  counted  out  the  money. 

"Drat  it!"  commented  Uncle  Billy  to  himself.  "I  could 
'a'  got  more!" 

"Now  where  can  we  make  ourselves  comfortable  with  this 
furniture?" 

Uncle  Billy  chirked  up.    All  was  not  yet  lost. 

"Waal,"  he  reflectively  drawled,  "there's  th'  new  barn. 
It  hain't  been  used  for  nothin'  yit,  senct  I  built  it  two  years 
ago.  I  jis'  hadn't  th'  heart  t'  put  th'  critters  in  it  as  long 
as  th'  ole  one  stood  up." 

The  other  smiled  at  this  flashlight  on  Uncle  Billy's  char 
acter,  and  they  went  out  to  look  at  the  barn. 

VII 

Uncle  Billy  came  back  from  the  "Tutt  House  Annex,"  as 
Mr.  Van  Kamp  dubbed  the  barn,  with  enough  more  money 
to  make  him  love  all  the  world  until  he  got  used  to  having 
it.  Uncle  Billy  belongs  to  a  large  family. 

Mr.  Van  Kamp  joined  the  women  on  the  porch,  and 
explained  the  attractively  novel  situation  to  them.  They 
were  chatting  gaily  when  the  Ellsworths  came  down  the 
stairs.  Mr.  Ellsworth  paused  for  a  moment  to  exchange  a 
word  with  Uncle  Billy. 


228    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"Mr.  Tutt,"  said  he,  laughing,  "if  we  go  for  a  bit  of 
exercise  will  you  guarantee  us  the  possession  of  our  rooms 
when  we  come  back?" 

"Yes  sir-ree!"  Uncle  Billy  assured  him.  "They  shan't 
nobody  take  them  rooms  away  from  you  fer  money, 
marbles,  ner  chalk.  A  bargain's  a  bargain,  an'  I  allus 
stick  to  one  I  make,"  and  he  virtuously  took  a  chew  of 
tobacco  while  he  inspected  the  afternoon  sky  with  a  clear 
conscience. 

"I  want  to  get  some  of  those  splendid  autumn  leaves  to 
decorate  our  cozy  apartments,"  Mrs.  Ellsworth  told  her 
husband  as  they  passed  in  hearing  of  the  Van  Kamps.  "Do 
you  know  those  oldtime  rag  rugs  are  the  most  oddly  decora 
tive  effects  that  I  have  ever  seen.  They  are  so  rich  in  color 
and  so  exquisitely  blended." 

There  were  reasons  why  this  poisoned  arrow  failed  to 
rankle,  but  the  Van  Kamps  did  not  trouble  to  explain. 
They  were  waiting  for  Ralph  to  come  out  and  join  his  par 
ents.  Ralph,  it  seemed,  however,  had  decided  not  to  take 
a  walk.  He  had  already  fatigued  himself,  he  had  explained, 
and  his  mother  had  favored  him  with  a  significant  look.  She 
could  readily  believe  him,  she  had  assured  him,  and  had 
then  left  him  in  scorn. 

The  Van  Kamps  went  out  to  consider  the  arrangement 
of  the  barn.  Evelyn  returned  first  and  came  out  on  the 
porch  to  find  a  handkerchief.  It  was  not  there,  but  Ralph 
was.  She  was  very  much  surprised  to  see  him,  and  she 
intimated  as  much. 

"It's  dreadfully  damp  in  the  woods,"  he  explained.  "By 
the  way,  you  don't  happen  to  know  the  Whitleys,  of  Wash 
ington,  do  you?  Most  excellent  people." 

"I'm  quite  sorry  that  I  do  not,"  she  replied.  "But  you 
will  have  to  excuse  me.  We  shall  be  kept  very  busy  with 
arranging  our  apartments." 

Ralph  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  ludicrous  expression. 

"Not  the  second  floor  front  suite!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  no!    Not  at  all,"  she  reassured  him. 

He  laughed  lightly. 

"Honors  are  about  even  in  that  game,"  he  said. 


BARGAIN  DAY  AT  TUTT  HOUSE     229 

"Evelyn"  called  her  mother  from  the  hall.  "Please  come 
and  take  those  front  suite  curtains  down  to  the  barn." 

"Pardon  me  while  we  take  the  next  trick,"  remarked 
Evelyn  with  a  laugh  quite  as  light  and  gleeful  as  his  own, 
and  disappeared  into  the  hall. 

He  followed  her  slowly,  and  was  met  at  the  door  by  her 
father. 

"You  are  the  younger  Mr.  Ellsworth,  I  believe,"  politely 
said  Mr.  Van  Kamp. 

"Ralph  Ellsworth.     Yes,  sir." 

"Here  is  a  note  for  your  father.  It  is  unsealed.  You 
are  quite  at  liberty  to  read  it." 

Mr.  Van  Kamp  bowed  himself  away,  and  Ralph  opened 
the  note,  which  read: 

EDWARD  EASTMAN  ELLSWORTH,  ESQ., 

DEAR  SIR  :  This  is  to  notify  you  that  I  have  rented  the  entire 
furniture  of  the  Tutt  House  for  the  ensuing  week,  and  am 
compelled  to  assume  possession  of  that  in  the  three  second  floor 
front  rooms,  as  well  as  all  the  balance  not  in  actual  use  by  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Tutt  and  the  driver  of  the  stage.  You  are  quite  wel 
come,  however,  to  make  use  of  the  furnishings  in  the  small 
room  over  the  kitchen.  Your  luggage  you  will  find  undisturbed. 
Regretting  any  inconvenience  that  this  transaction  may  cause 
you,  I  remain, 

Yours  respectfully, 

J.  BELMONT  VAN  KAMP. 

Ralph  scratched  his  head  in  amused  perplexity.  It  de 
volved  upon  him  to  even  up  the  affair  a  little  before  his 
mother  came  back.  He  must  support  the  family  reputation 
for  resourcefulness,  but  it  took  quite  a  bit  of  scalp  irritation 
before  he  aggravated  the  right  idea  into  being.  As  soon 
as  the  idea  came,  he  went  in  and  made  a  hide-bound  bargain 
with  Uncle  Billy,  then  he  went  out  into  the  hall  and  waited 
until  Evelyn  came  down  with  a  huge  armload  of  window 
curtains. 

"Honors  are  still  even,"  he  remarked.  "I  have  just  bought 
all  the  edibles  about  the  place,  whether  in  the  cellar,  the 
house  or  any  of  the  surrounding  structures,  in  the  ground, 
above  the  ground,  dead  or  alive,  and  a  bargain's  a  bargain 
as  between  man  and  man." 


230    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"Clever  of  you,  I'm  sure,"  commented  Miss  Van  Kamp, 
reflectively.  Suddenly  her  lips  parted  with  a  smile  that 
revealed  a  double  row  of  most  beautiful  teeth.  He  medi 
tatively  watched  the  curve  of  her  lips. 

"Isn't  that  rather  a  heavy  load?"  he  suggested.  "I'd  be 
delighted  to  help  you  move  the  things,  don't  you  know." 

"It  is  quite  kind  of  you,  and  what  the  men  would  call 
'game,'  I  believe,  under  the  circumstances,"  she  answered, 
"but  really  it  will  not  be  necessary.  We  have  hired  Mr. 
Tutt  and  the  driver  to  do  the  heavier  part  of  the  work,  and 
the  rest  of  it  will  be  really  a  pleasant  diversion." 

"No  doubt,"  agreed  Ralph,  with  an  appreciative  grin. 
"By  the  way,  you  don't  happen  to  know  Maud  and  Dorothy 
Partridge,  of  Baltimore,  do  you?  Stunning  pretty  girls,  both 
of  them,  and  no  end  of  swells." 

"I  know  so  very  few  people  in  Baltimore,"  she  murmured, 
and  tripped  on  down  to  the  barn. 

Ralph  went  out  on  the  porch  and  smoked.  There  was 
nothing  else  that  he  could  do. 

VIII 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  the  elder  Ellsworths  returned, 
almost  hidden  by  great  masses  of  autumn  boughs. 

"You  should  have  been  with  us,  Ralph,"  enthusiastically 
said  his  mother.  "I  never  saw  such  gorgeous  tints  in  all 
my  life.  We  have  brought  nearly  the  entire  woods  with  us." 

"It  was  a  good  idea,"  said  Ralph.  "A  stunning  good  idea. 
They  may  come  in  handy  to  sleep  on." 

Mrs.  Ellsworth  turned  cold. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  gasped. 

"Ralph,"  sternly  demanded  his  father,  "you  don't  mean 
to  tell  us  that  you  let  the  Van  Kamps  jockey  us  out  of 
those  rooms  after  all?" 

"Indeed,  no,"  he  airily  responded.  "Just  come  right  on 
up  and  see." 

He  led  the  way  into  the  suite  and  struck  a  match.  One 
solitary  candle  had  been  left  upon  the  mantel  shelf.  Ralph 
thought  that  this  had  been  overlooked,  but  his  mother  after- 


BARGAIN  DAY  AT  TUTT  HOUSE     231 

wards  set  him  right  about  that.  Mrs.  Van  Kamp  had 
cleverly  left  it  so  that  the  Ellsworths  could  see  how  dread 
fully  bare  the  place  was.  One  candle  in  three  rooms  is 
drearier  than  darkness  anyhow. 

Mrs.  Ellsworth  took  in  all  the  desolation,  the  dismal  ex 
panse  of  the  now  enormous  apartments,  the  shabby  walls, 
the  hideous  bright  spots  where  pictures  had  hung,  the  splint 
ered  flooring,  the  great,  gaunt  windows — and  she  gave  in. 
She  had  met  with  snub  after  snub,  and  cut  after  cut,  in  her 
social  climb,  she  had  had  the  cook  quit  in  the  middle  of  an 
important  dinner,  she  had  had  every  disconcerting  thing  pos 
sible  happen  to  her,  but  this — this  was  the  last  bale  of  straw. 
She  sat  down  on  a  suitcase,  in  the  middle  of  the  biggest 
room,  and  cried! 

Ralph,  having  waited  for  this,  now  told  about  the  food 
transaction,  and  she  hastily  pushed  the  last-coming  tear  back 
into  her  eye. 

"Good!"  she  cried.  "They  will  be  up  here  soon.  They 
will  be  compelled  to  compromise,  and  they  must  not  find 
me  with  red  eyes." 

She  cast  a  hasty  glance  around  the  room,  then,  in  a  sud 
den  panic,  seized  the  candle  and  explored  the  other  two. 
She  went  wildly  out  into  the  hall,  back  into  the  little  room 
over  the  kitchen,  downstairs,  everywhere,  and  returned  in 
consternation. 

"There's  not  a  single  mirror  left  in  the  house! "  she  moaned. 

Ralph  heartlessly  grinned.  He  could  appreciate  that  this 
was  a  characteristic  woman  trick,  and  wondered  admiringly 
whether  Evelyn  or  her  mother  had  thought  of  it.  However, 
this  was  a  time  for  action. 

"I'll  get  you  some  water  to  bathe  your  eyes,"  he  offered, 
and  ran  into  the  little  room  over  the  kitchen  to  get  a  pitcher. 
A  cracked  shaving-mug  was  the  only  vessel  that  had  been 
left,  but  he  hurried  down  into  the  yard  with  it.  This  was 
no  time  for  fastidiousness. 

He  had  barely  creaked  the  pump  handle  when  Mr.  Van 
Kamp  hurried  up  from  the  barn. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Van  Kamp,  "but  this 
v/ater  belongs  to  us.  My  daughter  bought  it,  all  that  is  in 


232    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

the  ground,  above  the  ground,  or  that  may  fall  from  the 
sky  upon  these  premises." 

IX 

The  mutual  siege  lasted  until  after  seven  o'clock,  but  it 
was  rather  one-sided.  The  Van  Kamps  could  drink  all  the 
water  they  liked,  it  made  them  no  hungrier.  If  the  Ells 
worths  ate  anything,  however,  they  grew  thirstier,  and,  more 
over,  water  was  necessary  if  anything  worth  while  was  to 
be  cooked.  They  knew  all  this,  and  resisted  until  Mrs. 
Ellsworth  was  tempted  and  fell.  She  ate  a  sandwich  and 
choked.  It  was  heartbreaking,  but  Ralph  had  to  be  sent 
down  with  a  plate  of  sandwiches  and  an  offer  to  trade  them 
for  water. 

Halfway  between  the  pump  and  the  house  he  met  Evelyn 
coming  with  a  small  pail  of  the  precious  fluid.  They  both 
stopped  stock  still;  then,  seeing  that  it  was  too  late  to 
retreat,  both  laughed  and  advanced. 

"Who  wins  now?"  bantered  Ralph  as  they  made  the  ex 
change. 

"It  looks  to  me  like  a  misdeal,"  she  gaily  replied,  and 
was  moving  away  when  he  called  her  back. 

"You  don't  happen  to  know  the  Gately's,  of  New  York, 
do  you?"  he  was  quite  anxious  to  know. 

"I  am  truly  sorry,  but  I  am  acquainted  with  so  few 
people  in  New  York.  We  are  from  Chicago,  you 
know." 

"Oh,"  said  he  blankly,  and  topk  the  water  up  to  the  Ells 
worth  suite. 

Mrs.  Ellsworth  cheered  up  considerably  when  she  heard 
that  Ralph  had  been  met  halfway,  but  her  eyes  snapped 
when  he  confessed  that  it  was  Miss  Van  Kamp  who  had 
met  him. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  carry  on  a  flirtation  with 
that  overdressed  creature,"  she  blazed. 

"Why  mother,"  exclaimed  Ralph,  shocked  beyond  meas 
ure.  "What  right  have  you  to  accuse  either  this  young  lady 
or  myself  of  flirting?  Flirting!" 


BARGAIN  DAY  AT  TUTT  HOUSE  233 

Mrs.  Ellsworth  suddenly  attacked  the  fire  with  quite  un 
necessary  energy. 

X 

Down  at  the  barn,  the  wide  threshing  floor  had  been  cov 
ered  with  gay  rag-rugs,  and  strewn  with  tables,  couches,  and 
chairs  in  picturesque  profusion.  Roomy  box-stalls  had  been 
carpeted  deep  with  clean  straw,  curtained  off  with  gaudy 
bed-quilts,  and  converted  into  cozy  sleeping  apartments.  The 
mow  and  the  stalls  had  been  screened  off  with  lace  curtains 
and  blazing  counterpanes,  and  the  whole  effect  was  one  of 
Oriental  luxury  and  splendor.  Alas,  it  was  only  an  "effect"! 
The  red-hot  parlor  stove  smoked  abominably,  the  pipe  car 
ried  other  smoke  out  through  the  hawmow  window,  only  to 
let  it  blow  back  again.  Chill  cross-draughts  whistled  in 
from  cracks  too  numerous  to  be  stopped  up,  and  the  miser 
able  Van  Kamps  could  only  cough  and  shiver,  and  envy  the 
Tutts  and  the  driver,  non-combatants  who  had  been  fed  two 
hours  before. 

Up  in  the  second  floor  suite  there  was  a  roaring  fire  in 
the  big  fireplace,  but  there  was  a  chill  in  the  room  that  no 
mere  fire  could  drive  away — the  chill  of  absolute  emptiness. 

A  man  can  outlive  hardships  that  would  kill  a  woman, 
but  a  woman  can  endure  discomforts  that  would  drive  a  man 
crazy. 

Mr.  Ellsworth  went  out  to  hunt  up  Uncle  Billy,  with 
an  especial  solace  in  mind.  The  landlord  was  not  in  the 
house,  but  the  yellow  gleam  of  a  lantern  revealed  his  pres 
ence  in  the  woodshed,  and  Mr.  Ellsworth  stepped  in  upon 
him  just  as  he  was  pouring  something  yellow  and  clear  into 
a  tumbler  from  a  big  jug  that  he  had  just  taken  from  under 
the  flooring. 

"How  much  do  you  want  for  that  jug  and  its  contents?" 
he  asked,  with  a  sigh  of  gratitude  that  this  supply  had  been 
overlooked. 

Before  Mr.  Tutt  could  answer,  Mr.  Van  Kamp  hurried  in 
at  the  door. 

"Wait  a  moment!"  he  cried.    "I  want  to  bid  on  that!" 


234    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"This  here  jug  hain't  fer  sale  at  no  price,"  Uncle  Billy 
emphatically  announced,  nipping  all  negotiations  right  in 
the  bud.  "It's  too  pesky  hard  to  sneak  this  here  licker  in 
past  Marge't,  but  I  reckon  it's  my  treat,  gents.  Ye  kin 
have  all  ye  want." 

One  minute  later  Mr.  Van  Kamp  and  Mr.  Ellsworth  were 
seated,  one  on  a  sawbuck  and  the  other  on  a  nail-keg,  com 
fortably  eyeing  each  other  across  the  work  bench,  and  each 
was  holding  up  a  tumbler  one-third  filled  with  the  golden 
yellow  liquid. 

"Your  health,  sir,"  courteously  proposed  Mr.  Ellsworth. 

"And  to  you,  sir,"  gravely  replied  Mr.  Van  Kamp. 

XI 

Ralph  and  Evelyn  happened  to  meet  at  the  pump,  quite 
accidentally,  after  the  former  had  made  half  a  dozen  five- 
minute-apart  trips  for  a  drink.  It  was  Miss  Van  Kamp, 
this  time,  who  had  been  studying  on  the  mutual  acquaint 
ance  problem. 

"You  don't  happen  to  know  the  Tylers,  of  Parkersburg, 
do  you?"  she  asked. 

"The  Tylers!  I  should  say  I  do!"  was  the  unexpected 
and  enthusiastic  reply.  "Why,  we  are  on  our  way  now  to 
Miss  Georgiana  Tyler's  wedding  to  my  friend  Jimmy  Cars- 
ton.  I'm  to  be  best  man." 

"How  delightful!"  she  exclaimed.  "We  are  on  the  way 
there,  too.  Georgiana  was  my  dearest  chum  at  school,  and 
I  am  to  be  her  'best  girl.'  " 

"Let's  go  around  on  the  porch  and  sit  down,"  said  Ralph. 

XII 

Mr.  Van  Kamp,  back  in  the  woodshed,  looked  about  him 
with  an  eye  of  content. 

"Rather  cozy  for  a  woodshed,"  he  observed.  "I  wonder 
if  we  couldn't  scare  up  a  little  session  of  dollar  limit?" 

Both  Uncle  Billy  and  Mr.  Ellsworth  were  willing.  Death 
and  poker  level  all  Americans.  A  fourth  hand  was  needed, 


BARGAIN  DAY  AT  TUTT  HOUSE  235 

however.    The  stage  driver  was  in  bed  and  asleep,  and  Mr. 
Ellsworth  volunteered  to  find  the  extra  player. 

"I'll  get  Ralph,"  he  said.    "He  plays  a  fairly  stiff  game." 

He  finally  found  his  son  on  the  porch,  apparently  alone, 
and  stated  his  errand. 

"Thank  you,  but  I  don't  believe  I  care  to  play  this  eve 
ning,"  was  the  astounding  reply,  and  Mr.  Ellsworth  looked 
closer.  He  made  out,  then,  a  dim  figure  on  the  other  side 
of  Ralph. 

"Oh!  Of  course  not!"  he  blundered,  and  went  back  to 
the  woodshed. 

Three-handed  poker  is  a  miserable  game,  and  it  seldom 
lasts  long.  It  did  not  in  this  case.  After  Uncle  Billy  had 
won  the  only  jack-pot  deserving  of  the  name,  he  was  al 
lowed  to  go  blissfully  to  sleep  with  his  hand  on  the  handle 
of  the  big  jug. 

After  poker  there  is  only  one  other  always  available  amuse 
ment  for  men,  and  that  is  business.  The  two  travelers  were 
quite  well  acquainted  when  Ralph  put  his  head  in  at  the 
door. 

"Thought  I'd  find  you  here,"  he  explained.  "It  just  oc 
curred  to  me  to  wonder  whether  you  gentlemen  had  dis 
covered,  as  yet,  that  we  are  all  to  be  house  guests  at  the 
Carston-Tyler  wedding." 

"Why,  no!"  exclaimed  his  father  in  pleased  surprise.  "It 
is  a  most  agreeable  coincidence.  Mr.  Van  Kamp,  allow  me 
to  introduce  my  son,  Ralph.  Mr.  Van  Kamp  and  myself, 
Ralph,  have  found  out  that  we  shall  be  considerably  thrown 
together  in  a  business  way  from  now  on.  He  has  just  pur 
chased  control  of  the  Metropolitan  and  Western  string  of 
interurbans." 

"Delighted,  I'm  sure,"  murmured  Ralph,  shaking  hands, 
and  then  he  slipped  out  as  quickly  as  possible.  Some  one 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  him. 

Perhaps  another  twenty  minutes  had  passed,  when  one  of 
the  men  had  an  illuminating  idea  that  resulted,  later  on,  in 
pleasant  relations  for  all  of  them.  It  was  about  time,  for 
Mrs.  Ellsworth,  up  in  the  bare  suite,  and  Mrs.  Van  Kamp, 
down  in  the  draughty  barn,  both  wrapped  up  to  the  chin 


236    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

and  both  still  chilly,  had  about  reached  the  limit  of  pa 
tience  and  endurance. 

"Why  can't  we  make  things  a  little  more  comfortable  for 
all  concerned?"  suggested  Mr.  Van  Kamp.  "Suppose,  as  a 
starter,  that  we  have  Mrs.  Van  Kamp  give  a  shiver  party 
down  in  the  bam?" 

"Good  idea,"  agreed  Mr.  Ellsworth.  "A  little  diplomacy 
will  do  it.  Each  one  of  us  will  have  to  tell  his  wife  that  the 
other  fellow  made  the  first  abject  overtures." 

Mr.  Van  Kamp  grinned  understandingly,  and  agreed  to 
the  infamous  ruse. 

"By  the  way,"  continued  Mr.  Ellsworth,  with  a  still  hap 
pier  thought,  "you  must  allow  Mrs.  Ellsworth  to  furnish  the 
dinner  for  Mrs.  Van  Kamp's  shiver  party." 

"Dinner!"  gasped  Mr.  Van  Kamp.    "By  all  means!" 

Both  men  felt  an  anxious  yawning  in  the  region  of  the 
appetite,  and  a  yearning  moisture  wetted  their  tongues.  They 
looked  at  the  slumbering  Uncle  Billy  and  decided  to  see  Mrs. 
Tutt  themselves  about  a  good,  hot  dinner  for  six. 

"Law  me!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Margaret  when  they  appeared 
at  the  kitchen  door.  "I  swan  I  thought  you  folks  Vd  never 
come  to  yore  senses.  Here  I've  had  a  big  pot  o'  stewed 
chicken  ready  on  the  stove  fer  two  mortal  hours.  I  kin 
give  ye  that,  an'  smashed  taters  an'  chicken  gravy,  an'  dried 
corn,  an'  hot  corn-pone,  an'  currant  jell,  an'  strawberry  pre 
serves,  an'  my  own  cannin'  o'  peaches,  an'  pumpkin-pie  an' 
coffee.  Will  that  do  ye?"  Would  it  do!  Would  it  do!! 

As  Aunt  Margaret  talked,  the  kitchen  door  swung  wide, 
and  the  two  men  were  stricken  speechless  with  astonishment. 
There,  across  from  each  other  at  the  kitchen  table,  sat  the 
utterly  selfish  and  traitorous  younger  members  of  the  rival 
houses  of  Ellsworth  and  Van  Kamp,  deep  in  the  joys  of 
chicken,  and  mashed  potatoes,  and  gravy,  and  hot  corn- 
pone,  and  all  the  other  "fixings,"  laughing  and  chatting 
gaily  like  chums  of  years'  standing.  They  had  seemingly 
just  come  to  an  agreement  about  something  or  other,  for 
Evelyn,  waving  the  shorter  end  of  a  broken  wishbone,  was 
vivaciously  saying  to  Ralph: 

"A  bargain's  a  bargain,  and  I  always  stick  to  one  I  make." 


A  CALL 

BY  GRACE  MACGOWAN  COOKE  (1863-        J 

A  BOY  in  an  unnaturally  clean,  country-laundered  collar 
walked  down  a  long  white  road.  He  scuffed  the  dust 
up  wantonly,  for  he  wished  to  veil  the  all-too-brilliant 
polish  of  his  cowhide  shoes.  Also  the  memory  of  the  white 
ness  and  slipperiness  of  his  collar  oppressed  him.  He  was 
fain  to  look  like  one  accustomed  to  social  diversions,  a  man 
hurried  from  hall  to  hall  of  pleasure,  without  time  between 
to  change  collar  or  polish  boot.  He  stooped  and  rubbed 
a  crumb  of  earth  on  his  overfresh  neck-linen. 

This  did  not  long  sustain  his  drooping  spirit.  He  was 
mentally  adrift  upon  the  Hints  and  Helps  to  Young  Men  in 
Business  and  Social  Relations,  which  had  suggested  to  him 
his  present  enterprise,  when  the  appearance  of  a  second 
youth,  taller  and  broader  than  himself,  with  a  shock  of 
light  curling  hair  and  a  crop  of  freckles  that  advertised  a 
rich  soil  threw  him  a  lifeline.  He  put  his  thumbs  to  his 
lips  and  whistled  in  a  peculiarly  ear-splitting  way.  The 
two  boys  had  sat  on  the  same  bench  at  Sunday-school  not 
three  hours  before;  yet  what  a  change  had  come  over  the 
world  for  one  of  them  since  then! 

"Hello!  Where  you  goin',  Ab?"  asked  the  newcomer, 
gruffly. 

"Callin',"  replied  the  boy  in  the  collar,  laconically,  but 
with  carefully  averted  gaze. 

"On  the  girls?"  inquired  the  other,  awestruck.  In  Mount 
Pisgah  you  saw  the  girls  home  from  night  church,  socials, 
or  parties;  you  could  hang  over  the  gate;  and  you  might 

From  Harper's  Magazine,  August,  1906.  Copyright,  1906,  by 
Harper  &  Brothers.  Republished  by  the  author's  permission. 

237 


238    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

walk  with  a  girl  in  the  cemetery  of  a  Sunday  afternoon; 
but  to  ring  a  front-door  bell  and  ask  for  Miss  Heart's  De 
sire  one  must  have  been  in  long  trousers  at  least  three  years 
— and  the  two  boys  confronted  in  the  dusty  road  had  worn 
these  dignifying  garments  barely  six  months. 

"Girls,"  said  Abner,  loftily;  "I  don't  know  about  girls — 
I'm  just  going  to  call  on  one  girl — Champe  Claiborne." 
He  marched  on  as  though  the  conversation  was  at  an  end; 
but  Ross  hung  upon  his  flank.  Ross  and  Champe  were 
neighbors,  comrades  in  all  sorts  of  mischief;  he  was  in 
doubt  whether  to  halt  Abner  and  pummel  him,  or  pro 
pose  to  enlist  under  his  banner. 

"Do  you  reckon  you  could?"  he  debated,  trotting  along 
by  the  irresponsive  Jilton  boy. 

"Run  home  to  your  mother,"  growled  the  originator  of 
the  plan,  savagely.  "You  ain't  old  enough  to  call  on  girls; 
anybody  can  see  that;  but  I  am,  and  I'm  going  to  call  on 
Champe  Claiborne." 

Again  the  name  acted  as  a  spur  on  Ross.  "With  your 
collar  and  boots  all  dirty?"  he  jeered.  "They  won't  know 
you're  callin'." 

The  boy  in  the  road  stopped  short  in  his  dusty  tracks. 
He  was  an  intense  creature,  and  he  whitened  at  the  tragic 
insinuation,  longing  for  the  wholesome  stay  and  companion 
ship  of  freckle-faced  Ross.  "I  put  the  dirt  on  o'  purpose 
so's  to  look  kind  of  careless,"  he  half  whispered,  in  an  agony 
of  doubt.  "S'pose  I'd  better  go  into  your  house  and  try  to 
wash  it  off?  Reckon  your  mother  would  let  me?" 

"I've  got  two  clean  collars,"  announced  the  other  boy, 
proudly  generous.  "I'll  lend  you  one.  You  can  put  it  on 
while  I'm  getting  ready.  I'll  tell  mother  that  we're  just 
stepping  out  to  do  a  little  calling  on  the  girls." 

Here  was  an  ally  worthy  of  the  cause.  Abner  welcomed 
him,  in  spite  of  certain  jealous  twinges.  He  reflected  with 
satisfaction  that  there  were  two  Claiborne  girls,  and  though 
Alicia  was  so  stiff  and  prim  that  no  boy  would  ever  think 
of  calling  on  her,  there  was  still  the  hope  that  she  might 
draw  Ross's  fire,  and  leave  him,  Abner,  to  make  the  num 
erous  remarks  he  had  stored  up  in  his  mind  from  Hints  and 


A  CALI  239 

Helps  to  Young  Men  in  Social  and  Business  Relations  to 
Champe  alone. 

Mrs.  Pryor  received  them  with  the  easy-going  kindness 
of  the  mother  of  one  son.  She  followed  them  into  the  din 
ing-room  to  kiss  and  feed  him,  with  an  absent  "Howdy,  Ab- 
ner;  how's  your  mother?" 

Abner,  big  with  the  importance  of  their  mutual  intention, 
inclined  his  head  stiffly  and  looked  toward  Ross  for  ex 
planation.  He  trembled  a  little,  but  it  was  with  delight, 
as  he  anticipated  the  effect  of  the  speech  Ross  had  outlined. 
But  it  did  not  come. 

"I'm  not  hungry,  mother,"  was  the  revised  edition  which 
the  freckle-faced  boy  offered  to  the  maternal  ear.  "I — we 
are  going  over  to  Mr.  Claiborne's — on — er — on  an  errand 
for  Abner's  father." 

The  black-eyed  boy  looked  reproach  as  they  clattered  up 
the  stairs  to  Ross's  room,  where  the  clean  collar  was  pro 
duced  and  a  small  stock  of  ties. 

"You'd  wear  a  necktie — wouldn't  you?"  Ross  asked, 
spreading  them  upon  the  bureau- top. 

"Yes.  But  make  it  fall  carelessly  over  your  shirt-front/' 
advised  the  student  of  Hints  and  Helps.  "Your  collar  is 
miles  too  big  for  me.  Say!  I've  got  a  wad  of  white  chewing- 
gum;  would  you  flat  it  out  and  stick  it  over  the  collar  but 
ton?  Maybe  that  would  fill  up  some.  You  kick  my  foot  if 
you  see  me  turning  my  head  so's  to  knock  it  off." 

"Better  button  up  your  vest,"  cautioned  Ross,  laboring 
with  the  "careless"  fall  of  his  tie. 

"Huh-uh!  I  want  'that  easy  air  which  presupposes  fa 
miliarity  with  society' — that's  what  it  says  in  my  book," 
objected  Abner. 

"Sure!"  Ross  returned  to  his  more  familiar  jeering  atti 
tude.  "Loosen  up  all  your  clothes,  then.  Why  don't  you 
untie  your  shoes?  Flop  a  sock  down  over  one  of  'em — that 
looks  'easy'  all  right." 

Abner  buttoned  his  vest.  "It  gives  a  man  lots  of  con 
fidence  to  know  he's  good-looking,"  he  remarked,  taking  all 
the  room  in  front  of  the  mirror. 

Ross,  at  the  wash-stand  soaking  his  hair  to  get  the  curl 


240    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

out  of  it,  grumbled  some  unintelligible  response.     The  two 
boys  went  down  the  stairs  with  tremulous  hearts. 

"Why,  you've  put  on  another  clean  shirt,  Rossie!"  Mrs. 
Pryor  called  from  her  chair — mothers'  eyes  can  see  so  far! 
"Well — don't  get  into  any  dirty  play  and  soil  it."  The 
boys  walked  in  silence — but  it  was  a  pregnant  silence;  for 
as  the  roof  of  the  Claiborne  house  began  to  peer  above  the 
crest  of  the  hill,  Ross  plumped  down  on  a  stone  and  an 
nounced,  "I  ain't  goin'." 

"Come  on,"  urged  the  black-eyed  boy.  "It'll  be  fun — 
and  everybody  will  respect  us  more.  Champe  won't  throw 
rocks  at  us  hi  recess-time,  after  we've  called  on  her.  She 
couldn't." 

"Called!"  grunted  Ross.  "I  couldn't  make  a  call  any 
more  than  a  cow.  What'd  I  say?  What'd  I  do?  I  can 
behave  all  right  when  you  just  go  to  people's  houses — but 
a  call!" 

Abner  hesitated.  Should  he  give  away  his  brilliant  in 
side  information,  drawn  from  the  Hints  and  Helps  book, 
and  be  rivalled  in  the  glory  of  his  manners  and  bearing? 
Why  should  he  not  pass  on  alone,  perfectly  composed,  and 
reap  the  field  of  glory  unsupported?  His  knees  gave  way 
and  he  sat  down  without  intending  it. 

"Don't  you  tell  anybody  and  I'll  put  you  on  to  exactly 
what  grown-up  gentlemen  say  and  do  when  they  go  calling 
on  the  girls,"  he  began. 

"Fire  away,"  retorted  Ross,  gloomily.  "Nobody  will  find 
out  from  me.  Dead  men  tell  no  tales.  If  I'm  fool  enough 
to  go,  I  don't  expect  to  come  out  of  it  alive." 

Abner  rose,  white  and  shaking,  and  thrusting  three  fingers 
into  the  buttoning  of  his  vest,  extending  the  other  hand  like 
an  orator,  proceeded  to  instruct  the  freckled,  perspiring  dis 
ciple  at  his  feet: 

"  'Hang  your  hat  on  the  rack,  or  give  it  to  a  servant.' " 

Ross  nodded  intelligently.    He  could  do  that. 

"  'Let  your  legs  be  gracefully  disposed,  one  hand  on  the 
knee,  the  other — '  " 

Abner  came  to  an  unhappy  pause.  "I  forget  what  a  fel 
low  does  with  the  other  hand.  Might  stick  it  in  your  pocket, 


A  CALL  241 

I  reckon.  'Do  not  saw  the  air  -with  gestures,  or  laugh 
loudly,  or  expectorate  on  the  carpet.  Indulge  in  little  friv 
olity.  Let  a  rich  stream  of  conversation  flow.' " 

Ross  mentally  dug  within  himself  for  sources  of  rich 
streams  of  conversation.  He  found  a  dry  soil.  "What  you 
goin'  to  talk  about?"  he  demanded,  fretfully.  "I  won't  go 
a  step  farther  till  I  know  what  I'm  goin'  to  say  when  I 
get  there." 

Abner  began  to  repeat  paragraphs  from  Hints  and  Helps. 
"  'It  is  best  to  remark,'  "  he  opened,  in  an  unnatural  voice, 
"'"How  well  you  are  looking!"  although  fulsome  compli 
ments  should  be  avoided.  When  seated  ask  the  young  lady 
who  her  favorite  composer  is.'  " 

"What's  a  composer?"  inquired  Ross,  with  visions  of 
soothing-syrup  in  his  mind. 

"A  man  that  makes  up  music.  Don't  butt  in  that  way; 
you  put  me  all  out — 'composer  is.  Name  yours.  Ask  her 
what  piece  of  music  she  likes  best.  Name  yours.  If  the 
lady  is  musical,  here  ask  her  to  play  or  sing.'  " 

This  chanted  recitation  seemed  to  have  a  hypnotic  effect 
on  the  freckled  boy;  his  big  pupils  contracted  each  time 
Abner  came  to  the  repetend,  "Name  yours." 

"I'm  tired  already,"  he  grumbled;  but  some  spell  made 
him  rise  and  fare  farther. 

When  they  had  entered  the  Qaiborne  gate,  they  leaned 
toward  each  other  like  young  saplings  weakened  at  the  root 
and  locking  branches  to  keep  what  shallow  foothold  on  earth 
remained. 

"You're  goin'  in  first,"  asserted  Ross,  but  without  convic 
tion.  It  was  his  custom  to  tear  up  to  this  house  a  dozen 
times  a  week,  on  his  father's  old  horse  or  afoot;  he  was 
wont  to  yell  for  Champe  as  he  approached,  and  quarrel 
joyously  with  her  while  he  performed  such  errand  as  he  had 
come  upon;  but  he  was  gagged  and  hamstrung  now  by  the 
hypnotism  of  Abner's  scheme. 

*  'Walk  quietly  up  the  steps;  ring  the  bell  and  lay  yoair 
card  on  the  servant,' "  quoted  Abner,  who  had  never  heard 
of  a  server. 

"  'Lay  your  card  on  the  servant!'  "  echoed  Ross.  "Cady'd 


242     AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

dodge.  There's  a  porch  to  cross  after  you  go  up  the  steps 
— does  it  say  anything  about  that?" 

"It  says  that  the  card  should  be  placed  on  the  servant," 
Abner  reiterated,  doggedly.  "If  Cady  dodges,  it  ain't  any 
business  of  mine.  There  are  no  porches  in  my  book.  Just 
walk  across  it  like  anybody.  We'll  ask  for  Miss  Champe 
Claiborne." 

"We  haven't  got  any  cards,"  discovered  Ross,  with  hope. 

"I  have,"  announced  Abner,  pompously.  "I  had  some 
struck  off  in  Chicago.  I  ordered  'em  by  mail.  They  got 
my  name  Pillow,  but  there's  a  scalloped  gilt  border  around 
it.  You  can  write  your  name  on  my  card.  Got  a  pencil?" 

He  produced  the  bit  of  cardboard;  Ross  fished  up  a 
chewed  stump  of  lead  pencil,  took  it  in  cold,  stiff  fingers, 
and  disfigured  the  square  with  eccentric  scribblings. 

"They'll  know  who  it's  meant  for,"  he  said,  apologeti 
cally,  "because  I'm  here.  What's  likely  to  happen  after 
we  get  rid  of  the  card?" 

"I  told  you  about  hanging  your  hat  on  the  rack  and  dis 
posing  your  legs." 

"I  remember  now,"  sighed  Ross.  They  had  been  going 
slower  and  slower.  The  angle  of  inclination  toward  each 
other  became  more  and  more  pronounced. 

"We  must  stand  by  each  other,"  whispered  Abner. 

"I  will — if  I  can  stand  at  all,"  murmured  the  other  boy, 
huskily. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  They  had  rounded  the  big  clump  of  ever 
greens  and  found  Aunt  Missouri  Claiborne  placidly  rocking 
on  the  front  porch!  Directed  to  mount  steps  and  ring  bell, 
to  lay  cards  upon  the  servant,  how  should  one  deal  with  a 
rosy-faced,  plump  lady  of  uncertain  years  in  a  rocking- 
chair^  What  should  a  caller  lay  upon  her?  A  lion  in  the 
way  could  not  have  been  more  terrifying.  Even  retreat 
was  cut  off.  Aunt  Missouri  had  seen  them.  "Howdy,  boys; 
how  are  you?"  she  said,  rocking  peacefully.  The  two  stood 
before  her  like  detected  criminals. 

Then,  to  Ross's  dismay,  Abner  sank  down  on  the  lowest 
step  of  the  porch,  the  westering  sun  full  in  his  hopeless  eyes. 
He  sat  on  his  cap.  It  was  characteristic  that  die  freckled 


A  CALL  243 

boy  remained  standing.  He  would  walk  up  those  steps 
according  to  plan  'and  agreement,  if  at  all.  He  accepted 
no  compromise.  Folding  his  straw  hat  into  a  battered  cone, 
he  watched  anxiouslly  for  the  delivery  of  the  card.  He 
was  not  sure  what  Aunt  Missouri's  attitude  might  be  if  it 
were  laid  on  her.  He  bent  down  to  his  companion.  "Go 
ahead,"  he  whispered.  "Lay  the  card." 

Abner  raised  appealing  eyes.  "In  a  minute.  Give  me 
time,"  he  pleaded. 

"Mars'  Ross — Mars'  Ross!  Head  'em  off!"  sounded  a 
yell,  and  Babe,  the  house-boy,  came  around  the  porch  in 
pursuit  of  two  half-grown  chickens. 

"Help  him,  Rossie,"  prompted  Aunt  Missouri,  sharply. 
"You  boys  can  stay  to  supper  and  have  some  of  the  chicken 
if  you  help  catch  them." 

Had  Ross  taken  time  to  think,  he  might  have  reflected 
that  gentlemen  making  formal  calls  seldom  join  in  a  chase 
after  the  main  dish  of  the  family  supper.  But  the  needs  of 
Babe  were  instant.  The  lad  flung  himself  sidewise,  caught 
one  chicken  in  his  hat,  while  Babe  fell  upon  the  other  in  the 
manner  of  a  football  player.  Ross  handed  the  pullet  to  the 
house-boy,  fearing  that  he  had  done  something  very  much 
out  of  character,  then  pulled  the  reluctant  negro  toward  to 
the  steps. 

"Babe's  a  servant,"  he  whispered  to  Abner,  who  had  sat 
rigid  through  the  entire  performance.  "I  helped  him  with 
the  chickens,  and  he's  got  to  stand  gentle  while  you  lay 
the  card  on." 

Confronted  by  the  act  itself,  Abner  was  suddenly  aware 
that  he  knew  not  how  to  begin.  He  took  refuge  in  dis 
simulation. 

"Hush!"  he  whispered  back.  "Don't  you  see  Mr.  Clai- 
borne's  come  out? — He's  going  to  read  something  to  us." 

Ross  plumped  down  beside  him.  "Never  mind  the  card; 
tell  'em,"  he  urged. 

"Tell  'em  yourself." 

"No — let's  cut  and  run." 

"I — I  think  the  worst  of  it  is  over.  When  Ghampe  sees 
us  she'll—" 


244    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

Mention  of  Champe  stiffened  Ross's  spine.  If  it  had 
been  glorious  to  call  upon  her,  how  very  terrible  she  would 
make  it  should  they  attempt  calling,  fail,  and  the  failure 
come  to  her  knowledge!  Some  things  were  easier  to  en 
dure  than  others;  he  resolved  to  stay  till  the  call  was  made. 

For  half  an  hour  the  boys  sat  with  drooping  heads,  and 
the  old  gentleman  read  aloud,  presumably  to  Aunt  Missouri 
and  themselves.  Finally  their  restless  eyes  discerned  the 
two  Claiborne  girls  walking  serene  in  Sunday  trim  under 
the  trees  at  the  edge  of  the  lawn.  Arms  entwined,  they  were 
whispering  together  and  giggling  a  little.  A  caller,  Ross 
dared  not  use  his  voice  to  shout  nor  his  legs  to  run  toward 
them. 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  talk  to  the  girls,  Rossie?"  Aunt 
Missouri  asked,  in  the  kindness  of  her  heart.  "Don't  be 
noisy — it's  Sunday,  you  know — and  don't  get  to  playing 
anything  that'll  dirty  up  your  good  clothes." 

Ross  pressed  his  lips  hard  together;  his  heart  swelled 
with  the  rage  of  the  misunderstood.  Had  the  card  been  in 
his  possession,  he  would,  at  that  instant,  have  laid  it  on 
Aunt  Missouri  without  a  qualm. 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  the  old  gentleman,  a  bit  testily. 

"The  girls  want  to  hear  you  read,  father,"  said  Aunt 
Missouri,  shrewdly;  and  she  got  up  and  trotted  on  short, 
fat  ankles  to  the  girls  in  the  arbor.  The  three  returned 
together,  Alicia  casting  curious  glances  at  the  uncomfortable 
youths,  Champe  threatening  to  burst  into  giggles  with  every 
breath. 

Abner  sat  hard  on  his  cap  and  blushed  silently.  Ross 
twisted  his  hat  into  a  three-cornered  wreck. 

The  two  girls  settled  themselves  noisily  on  the  upper 
step.  The  old  man  read  on  and  on.  The  sun  sank  lower. 
The  hills  were  red  in  the  west  as  though  a  brush  fire  flamed 
behind  their  crests.  Abner  stole  a  furtive  glance  at  his 
companion  in  misery,  and  the  dolor  of  Ross's  countenance 
somewhat  assuaged  his  anguish.  The  freckle-faced  boy  was 
thinking  of  the  village  over  the  hill,  a  certain  pleasant  white 
house  set  back  hi  a  green  yard,  past  whose  gate  the  two- 
plank  sidewalk  ran.  He  knew  lamps  were  beginning  to  wink 


A  CALL  245 

in  the  windows  of  the  neighbors  about,  as  though  the  houses 
said,  "Our  boys  are  all  at  home — but  Ross  Pryor's  out  trying 
to  call  on  the  girls,  and  can't  get  anybody  to  understand 
it."  Oh,  that  he  were  walking  down  those  two  planks,  draw 
ing  a  stick  across  the  pickets,  lifting  high  happy  feet  which 
could  turn  in  at  that  gate!  He  wouldn't  care  what  the 
lamps  said  then.  He  wouldn't  even  mind  if  the  whole  Clai- 
borne  family  died  laughing  at  him — if  only  some  power 
would  raise  him  up  from  this  paralyzing  spot  and  put  him 
behind  the  safe  barriers  of  his  own  home! 

The  old  man's  voice  lapsed  into  silence;  the  light  was 
becoming  too  dim  for  his  reading.  Aunt  Missouri  turned 
and  called  over  her  shoulder  into  the  shadows  of  the  big 
hall:  "You  Babe!  Go  put  two  extra  plates  on  the  supper- 
table." 

The  boys  grew  red  from  the  tips  of  their  ears,  and  as  far 
as  any  one  could  see  under  their  wilting  collars.  Abner 
felt  the  lump  of  gum  come  loose  and  slip  down  a  cold  spine. 
Had  their  intentions  but  been  known,  this  inferential  in 
vitation  would  have  been  most  welcome.  It  was  but  to  rise 
up  and  thunder  out,  "We  came  to  call  on  the  young  ladies." 

They  did  not  rise.  They  did  not  thunder  out  anything. 
Babe  brought  a  lamp  and  set  it  inside  the  window,  and  Mr. 
Claiborne  resumed  his  reading.  Champe  giggled  and  said 
that  Alicia  made  her.  Alcia  drew  her  skirts  about  her, 
sniffed,  and  looked  virtuous,  and  said  she  didn't  see  any 
thing  funny  to  laugh  at.  The  supper-bell  rang.  The  fam 
ily,  evidently  taking  it  for  granted  that  'the  boys  would  fol 
low,  went  in. 

Alone  for  the  first  time,  Abner  gave  up.  "This  ain't  any 
use,"  he  complained.  "We  ain't  calling  on  anybody." 

"Why  didn't  you  lay  on  the  card?"  demanded  Ross, 
fiercely.  "Why  didn't  you  say:  'We've-just-dropped-into- 
call-on-Miss-Champe.  It's-a-pleasant-evening.  We-feel- 
we-must-be-going,'  like  you  said  you  would?  Then  we 
could  have  lifted  our  hats  and  got  away  decently." 

Abner  showed  no  resentment. 

"Oh,  if  it's  so  easy,  why  didn't  you  do  it  yourself?"  he 
groaned. 


*46    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"Somebody's  coming,"  Ross  muttered,  hoarsely.  "Say  it 
now.  Say  it  quick." 

The  somebody  proved  to  be  Aunt  Missouri,  who  advanced 
only  as  far  as  the  end  of  the  hall  and  shouted  cheerfully: 
"The  idea  of  a  growing  boy  not  coming  to  meals  when  the 
bell  rings!  I  though  you  two  would  be  in  there  ahead  of 
us.  Come  on."  And  cMnging  to  their  head-coverings  as 
though  these  contained  some  charm  whereby  the  owners 
might  be  rescued,  the  unhappy  callers  were  herded  into  the 
dining-room.  There  were  many  things  on  the  table  that 
boys  like.  Both  were  becoming  fairly  cheerful,  when  Aunt 
Missouri  checked  the  biscuit-plate  with:  "I  treat  my  neigh 
bors'  children  just  like  I'd  want  children  of  my  own  treated. 
If  your  mothers  let  you  eat  all  you  want,  say  so,  and  I  don't 
care;  but  if  either  of  them  is  a  little  bit  particular,  why, 
I'd  stop  at  six!" 

Still  reeling  from  this  blow,  the  boys  finally  rose  from  the 
table  and  passed  out  with  the  family,  their  hats  clutched 
to  their  bosoms,  and  clinging  together  for  mutual  aid  and 
comfort.  During  the  usual  Sunday-evening  singing  Champe 
laughed  till  Aunt  Missouri  threatened  to  send  her  to  bed. 
Abner's  card  slipped  from  his  hand  and  dropped  face  up  on 
the  floor.  He  fell  upon  it  and  tore  it  into  infinitesimal 
pieces. 

"That  must  have  been  a  love-letter,"  said  Aunt  Missouri, 
in  a  pause  of  the  music.  "You  boys  are  getting  'most  old 
enough  to  think  about  beginning  to  call  on  the  girls."  Her 
eyes  twinkled. 

Ross  growled  like  a  stoned  cur.  Abner  took  a  sudden 
dive  into  Hints  and  Helps,  and  came  up  with,  "You  flatter 
us,  Miss  Claiborne,"  whereat  Ross  snickered  out  like  a 
human  boy.  They  all  stared  at  him. 

"It  sounds  so  funny  to  call  Aunt  Missouri  'Mis'  Clai 
borne,'  "  the  lad  of  the  freckles  explained. 

"Funny?"  Aunt  Missouri  reddened.  "I  don't  see  any 
particular  joke  in  my  having  my  maiden  name." 

Abner,  who  instantly  guessed  at  what  was  in  Ross's  mind, 
turned  white  at  the  thought  of  what  they  had  escaped.  Sup 
pose  he  had  laid  on  the  card  and  asked  for  Miss  Claiborne! 


A   CALL  247 

"What's  the  matter,  Champe?"  inquired  Ross,  in  a  fairly 
natural  tone.  The  air  he  had  drawn  into  his  lungs  when  he 
laughed  at  Abner  seemed  to  relieve  him  from  the  numbing 
gentility  which  had  bound  his  powers  since  he  joined  Ab- 
ner's  ranks. 

"Nothing.    I  laughed  because  you  laughed,"  said  the  girl. 

The  singing  went  forward  fitfully.  Servants  traipsed 
through  the  darkened  yard,  going  home  for  Sunday  night. 
Aunt  Missouri  went  out  and  held  some  low-toned  parley 
with  them.  Champe  yawned  with  insulting  enthusiasm. 
Presently  both  girls  quietly  disappeared.  Aunt  Missouri 
never  returned  to  the  parlor — evidently  thinking  that  the 
girls  would  attend  to  the  final  amenities  with  their  callers. 
They  were  left  alone  with  old  Mr.  Claiborne.  They  sat  as 
though  bound  in  their  chairs,  while  the  old  man  read  in  si 
lence  for  a  while.  Finally  he  closed  his  book,  glanced  about 
him,  and  observed  absently: 

"So  you  boys  were  to  spend  the  night?"  Then,  as  he 
looked  at  their  startled  faces:  "I'm  right,  am  I  not?  You 
are  to  spent  the  night?" 

Oh,  for  courage  to  say:  "Thank  you,  no.  We'll  be  going 
now.  We  just  came  over  to  call  on  Miss  Champe."  But 
thought  of  how  this  would  sound  in  face  of  the  facts,  the 
painful  realization  that  they  dared  not  say  it  because  they 
had  not  said  it,  locked  their  lips.  Their  feet  were  lead; 
their  tongues  stiff  and  too  large  for  their  mouths.  Like 
creatures  in  a  nightmare,  they  moved  stiffly,  one  might  have 
said  creakingly,  up  the  stairs  and  received  each — a  bed 
room  candle! 

"Good  night,  children,"  said  the  absent-minded  old  man. 
The  two  gurgled  out  some  sounds  which  were  intended  for 
words  and  doged  behind  the  bedroom  door. 

"They've  put  us  to  bed!"  Abner's  black  eyes  flashed 
fire.  His  nervous  hands  clutched  at  the  collar  Ross  had 
lent  him.  "That's  what  I  get  for  coming  here  with  you, 
Ross  Pryor!"  And  tears  of  humiliation  stood  in  his  eyes. 

In  his  turn  Ross  showed  no  resentment.  "What  I'm  wor 
ried  about  is  my  mother,"  he  confessed.  "She's  so  sharp 
about  finding  out  things.  She  wouldn't  tease  me — she'd  just 


248    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

be  sorry  for  me.     But  she'll  think  I  went  home  with  you." 

"I'd  like  to  see  my  mother  make  a  fuss  about  my  calling 
on  the  girls!"  growled  Abner,  glad  to  let  his  rage  take  a 
safe  direction. 

"Calling  on  the  girls!  Have  we  called  on  any  girls?" 
demanded  clear-headed,  honest  Ross. 

"Not  exactly — yet,"  admitted  Abner,  reluctantly.  "Come 
on — let's  go  to  bed.  Mr.  Claiborne  asked  us,  and  he's  the 
head  of  this  household.  It  isn't  anybody's  business  what 
we  came  for." 

"Ill  slip  off  my  shoes  and  lie  down  till  Babe  ties  up  the 
dog  in  the  morning,"  said  Ross.  "Then  we  can  get  away 
before  any  of  the  family  is  up." 

Oh,  youth — youth — youth,  with  its  rash  promises!  Worn 
out  with  misery  the  boys  slept  heavily.  The  first  sound 
that  either  heard  in  the  morning  was  Babe  hammering 
upon  their  bedroom  door.  They  crouched  guiltily  and  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes.  "Let  pretend  we  ain't  here  and  he'll 
go  away,"  breathed  Abner. 

But  Babe  was  made  of  sterner  stuff.  He  rattled  the  knob. 
He  turned  it.  He  put  in  a  black  face  with  a  grin  which  di 
vided  it  from  ear  to  ear.  "Cady  say  I  mus'  call  dem  fool 
boys  to  breakfus',"  he  announced.  "I  never  named  you- 
all  dat.  Cady,  she  say  dat." 

"Breakfast!"  echoed  Ross,  in  a  daze. 

"Yessuh,  breakfus',"  reasserted  Babe,  coming  entirely 
into  the  room  and  looking  curiously  about  him.  "Ain't  you- 
all  done  been  to  bed  at  all?"  wrapping  his  arms  about  his 
shoulders  and  shaking  with  silent  ecstasies  of  mirth.  The 
boys  threw  themselves  upon  him  and  ejected  him. 

"Sent  up  a  servant  to  call  us  to  breakfast,"  snarled  Abner. 
"If  they'd  only  sent  their  old  servant  to  the  door  in  the  first 
place,  all  this  wouldn't  'a'  happened.  I'm  just  that  way 
when  I  get  thrown  off  the  track.  You  know  how  it  was 
when  I  tried  to  repeat  those  things  to  you — I  had  to  go 
clear  back  to  the  beginning  when  I  got  interrupted." 

"Does  that  mean  that  you're  still  hanging  around  here 
to  begin  over  and  make  a  call?"  asked  Ross,  darkly.  "I 
won't  go  down  to  breakfast  if  you  are." 


A  CALL  249 

Abner  brightened  a  little  as  he  saw  Ross  becoming  wordy 
in  his  rage.  "I  dare  you  to  walk  downstairs  and  say,  'We- 
just-dropped-in-to-call-on-Miss-Champe'!"  he  said. 

"I — oh — I — darn  it  all!  there  goes  the  second  bell.  We 
may  as  well  trot  down." 

"Don't  leave  me,  Ross,"  pleaded  the  Jilton  boy.  "I  can't 
stay  here — and  I  can't  go  down." 

The  tone  was  hysterical.  The  boy  with  freckles  took  his 
companion  by  the  arm  without  another  word  and  marched 
him  down  the  stairs.  "We  may  get  a  chance  yet  to  call  on 
Champe  all  by  herself  out  on  the  porch  or  in  the  arbor  be 
fore  she  goes  to  school,"  he  suggested,  by  way  of  putting 
some  spine  into  the  black-eyed  boy. 

An  emphatic  bell  rang  when  they  were  half-way  down  the 
stairs.  Clutching  their  hats,  they  slunk  into  the  dining- 
room.  Even  Mr.  Claiborne  seemed  to  notice  something  un 
usual  in  their  bearing  as  they  settled  into  the  chairs  as 
signed  to  them,  and  asked  them  kindly  if  they  had  slept 
well. 

It  was  plain  that  Aunt  Missouri  had  been  posting  him  as 
to  her  understanding  of  the  intentions  of  these  young  men. 
The  state  of  affairs  gave  an  electric  hilarity  to  the  atmos 
phere.  Babe  travelled  from  the  sideboard  to  the  table, 
trembling  like  chocolate  pudding.  Cady  insisted  on  bring 
ing  in  the  cakes  herself,  and  grinned  as  she  whisked  her 
starched  blue  skirts  in  and  out  of  the  dining-room.  A 
dimple  even  showed  itself  at  the  corners  of  pretty  Alicia's 
prim  little  mouth.  Champe  giggled,  till  Ross  heard  Cady 
whisper: 

"Now  you  got  one  dem  snickerin'  spells  agin.  You  gwinc 
bust  yo'  dress  buttons  off  in  the  back  ef  you  don't  mind." 

As  the  spirits  of  those  about  them  mounted,  the  hearts 
of  the  two  youths  sank — if  it  was  like  this  among  the  Clai- 
bornes,  what  would  it  be  at  school  and  in  the  world  at  large 
when  their  failure  to  connect  intention  with  result  became 
village  talk?  Ross  bit  fiercely  upon  an  unoffending  batter- 
cake,  and  resolved  to  make  a  call  single-handed  before  he 
left  the  house. 

They  went  out  of  the  dining-room,  tbeir  hate  as  evef 


250    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

pressed  to  their  breasts.  With  no  volition  of  their  own, 
their  uncertain  young  legs  carried  them  to  the  porch.  The 
Claiborne  family  and  household  followed  like  small  boys 
after  a  circus  procession.  When  the  two  turned,  at  bay, 
yet  with  nothing  between  them  and  liberty  but  a  hypnotism 
of  their  own  suggestion,  they  saw  the  black  faces  of  the  ser 
vants  peering  over  the  family  shoulders. 

Ross  was  the  boy  to  have  drawn  courage  from  the  des 
peration  of  their  case,  and  made  some  decent  if  not  glorious 
ending.  But  at  the  psychological  moment  there  came  around 
the  corner  of  the  house  that  most  contemptible  figure  known 
to  the  Southern  plantation,  a  shirt-boy — a  creature  who  may 
be  described,  for  the  benefit  of  those  not  informed,  as  a 
pickaninny  clad  only  in  a  long,  coarse  cotton  shirt.  While 
all  eyes  were  fastened  upon  him  this  inglorious  ambassador 
bolted  forth  his  message: 

"Yo'  ma  say" — his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Abner — "ef  yo' 
don'  come  home,  she  gwine  come  after  yo' — an'  cut  yo' 
into  inch  pieces  wid  a  rawhide  when  she  git  yo'.  Dat  jest 
what  Miss  Hortense  say." 

As  though  such  a  book  as  Hints  and  Helps  had  never  ex 
isted,  Abner  shot  for  the  gate — he  was  but  a  hobbledehoy 
fascinated  with  the  idea  of  playing  gentleman.  But  in  Ross 
there  were  the  makings  of  a  man.  For  a  few  half-hearted 
paces,  under  the  first  impulse  of  horror,  he  followed  his 
deserting  chief,  the  laughter  of  the  family,  the  unrestrain- 
able  guffaws  of  the  negroes,  sounding  in  the  rear.  But  when 
Champe's  high,  offensive  giggle,  topping  all  the  others,  in 
sulted  his  ears,  he  stopped  dead,  wheeled,  and  ran  to  the 
porch  faster  than  he  had  fled  from  it.  White  as  paper,  shak 
ing  with  inexpressible  rage,  he  caught  and  kissed  the  titter 
ing  girl,  violently,  noisily,  before  them  all. 

The  negroes  fled — they  dared  not  trust  their  feelings;  even 
Alicia  sniggered  unobtrusively;  Grandfather  Claiborne 
chuckled,  and  Aunt  Missouri  frankly  collapsed  into  heil 
rocking-chair,  bubbling  with  mirth,  crying  out: 

"Good  for  you,  Ross!  Seems  you  did  know  how  to  call 
on  the  girls,  after  all." 

But  Ross,  paying  no  attention,  walked  swiftly  toward 


A  CALL  251 

the  gate.  He  had  served  his  novitiate.  He  would  never  be 
afraid  again.  With  cheerful  alacrity  he  dodged  the  stones 
flung  after  him  with  friendly,  erratic  aim  by  the  girl  upon 
whom,  yesterday  afternoon,  he  had  come  to  make  a  social 
call. 


HOW  THE  WIDOW  WON 
THE  DEACON 

BY  WILLIAM  JAMES  LAMPTON  (         -1917) 

OF  COURSE  the  Widow  Stimson  never  tried  to  win 
Deacon  Hawkins,  nor  any  other  man,  for  that  mat 
ter.  A  widow  doesn't  have  to  try  to  win  a  man;  she 
wins  without  trying.  Still,  the  Widow  Stimson  sometimes 
wondered  why  the  deacon  was  so  blind  as  not  to  see  how  her 
fine  farm  adjoining  his  equally  fine  place  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  town  might  not  be  brought  under  one  management  with 
mutual  benefit  to  both  parties  at  interest.  Which  one  that 
management  might  become  was  a  matter  of  future  detail. 
The  widow  knew  how  to  run  a  farm  successfully,  and  a  large 
farm  is  not  much  more  difficult  to  run  than  one  of  half  the 
size.  She  had  also  had  one  husband,  and  knew  something 
more  than  running  a  farm  successfully.  Of  all  of  which  the 
deacon  was  perfectly  well  aware,  and  still  he  had  not  been 
moved  by  the  merging  spirit  of  the  age  to  propose  con 
solidation. 

This  interesting  situation  was  up  for  discussion  at  the 
Wednesday  afternoon  meeting  of  the  Sisters'  Sewing  Society. 

"For  my  part,"  Sister  Susan  Spicer,  wife  of  the  Metho 
dist  minister,  remarked  as  she  took  another  tuck  in  a  four 
teen-year-old  girl's  skirt  for  a  ten-year-old — "for  my  part,  I 
can't  see  why  Deacon  Hawkins  and  Kate  Stimson  don't  see 
the  error  of  their  ways  and  depart  from  them." 

"I  rather  guess  she  has,"  smiled  Sister  Poteet,  the  grocer's 
better  half,  who  had  taken  an  afternoon  off  from  the  store 
in  order  to  be  present. 

From  Harper's  Bazaar,  April,  1911;  copyright,  1911,  by  Har 
per  &  Brothers;  republished  by  permission. 

252 


HOW  THE  WIDOW  WON  THE  DEACON      253 

"Or  is  willing  to,"  added  Sister  Maria  Cartridge,  a 
spinster  still  possessing  faith,  hope,  and  charity,  notwith 
standing  she  had  been  on  the  waiting  list  a  long  time. 

"Really,  now,"  exclaimed  little  Sister  Green,  the  doctor's 
wife,  "do  you  think  it  is  the  deacon  who  needs  urging?" 

"It  looks  that  way  to  me,"  Sister  Poteet  did  not  hesitate 
to  affirm. 

"Well,  I  heard  Sister  Clark  say  that  she  had  heard  him 
call  her  'Kitty'  one  night  when  they  were  eating  ice-cream 
at  the  Mite  Society,"  Sister  Candish,  the  druggist's  wife, 
added  to  the  fund  of  reliable  information  on  hand. 

"  'Kitty,'  indeed!"  protested  Sister  Spicer.  "The  idea  of 
anybody  calling  Kate  Stimson  'Kitty'!  The  deacon  will 
talk  that  way  to  'most  any  woman,  but  if  she  let  him  say  it 
to  her  more  than  once,  she  must  be  getting  mighty  anxious, 
I  think." 

"Oh,"  Sister  Candish  hastened  to  explain,  "Sister  Clark 
didn't  say  she  had  heard  him  say  it  twice." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  she  heard  him  say  it  once,"  Sister 
Spicer  asserted  with  confidence. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  Sister  Poteet  argued.  "From 
all  I  can  see  and  hear  I  think  Kate  Stimson  wouldn't  ob 
ject  to  'most  anything  the  deacon  would  say  to  her,  know 
ing  as  she  does  that  he  ain't  going  to  say  anything  he 
shouldn't  say." 

"And  isn't  saying  what  he  should,"  added  Sister  Greea, 
with  a  sly  snicker,  which  went  around  the  room  softly. 

"But  as  I  was  saying "  Sister  Spicer  began,  when 

Sister  Poteet,  whose  rocker,  near  the  window,  commanded 
a  view  of  the  front  gate,  interrupted  with  a  warning, 
"  'Sh-'sh." 

"Why  shouldn't  I  say  what  I  wanted  to  when " 

Sister  Spicer  began. 

"There  she  comes  now,"  explained  Sister  Poteet,  "and  as 
I  live  the  deacon  drove  her  here  in  his  sleigh,  and  he's 
waiting  while  she  comes  in.  I  wonder  what  next,"  and 
Sister  Poteet,  in  conjunction  with  the  entire  society,  gasped 
and  held  their  eager  breaths,  awaiting  the  entrance  of  the 
subject  of  conversation. 


254    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

Sister  Spicer  went  to  the  front  door  to  let  her  in,  and 
she  was  greeted  with  the  greatest  cordiality  by  every 
body. 

"We  were  just  talking  about  you  and  wondering  why 
you  were  so  late  coming,"  cried  Sister  Poteet.  "Now  take 
off  your  'things  and  make  up  for  lost  time.  There's  a  pair 
of  pants  over  there  to  be  cut  down  to  fit  that  poor  little 
Snithers  boy." 

The  excitement  and  curiosity  of  the  society  were  almost 
more  than  could  be  borne,  but  never  a  sister  let  on  that  she 
knew  the  deacon  was  at  the  gate  waiting.  Indeed,  as  far 
as  the  widow  could  discover,  there  was  not  the  slightest  in 
dication  that  anybody  had  ever  heard  there  was  such  a 
person  as  the  deacon  in  existence. 

"Oh,"  she  chirruped,  in  the  liveliest  of  humors,  "you  will 
have  to  excuse  me  for  today.  Deacon  Hawkins  overtook 
me  on  the  way  here,  and  fie  said  I  had  simply  got  to  go 
sleigh-riding  with  him.  He's  waiting  out  at  the  gate  now." 

"Is  that  so?"  exclaimed  the  society  unanimously,  and 
rushed  to  the  window  to  see  if  it  were  really  true. 

"Well,  did  you  ever?"  commented  Sister  Poteet,  gen 
erally. 

"Hardly  ever,"  laughed  the  widow,  good-naturedly,  "and 
I  don't  want  to  lose  the  chance.  You  know  Deacon  Haw 
kins  isn't  asking  somebody  every  day  to  go  sleighing  with 
him.  I  told  him  I'd  go  if  he  would  bring  me  around  here 
to  let  you  know  what  had  become  of  me,  and  so  he  did. 
Now,  good-by,  and  I'll  be  sure  to  be  present  at  the  next 
meeting.  I  have  to  hurry  because  he'll  get  fidgety." 

The  widow  ran  away  like  a  lively  schoolgirl.  All  the 
sisters  watched  her  get  into  the  sleigh  with  the  deacon,  and 
resumed  the  previous  discussion  with  greatly  increased  in 
terest. 

But  little  recked  the  widow  and  less  recked  the  deacon. 
He  had  bought  a  new  horse  and  he  wanted  the  widow's 
opinion  of  it,  for  the  Widow  Stimson  was  a  competent  judge 
of  fine  horseflesh.  If  Deacon  Hawkins  had  one  insatiable 
ambition  it  was  to  own  a  horse  which  could  fling  its  heels 
in  the  face  of  the  best  that  Squire  Hopkins  drove.  In  his 


HOW  THE  WIDOW  WON  THE  DEACON      255 

early  manhood  the  deacon  was  no  deacon  by  a  great  deal. 
But  as  the  years  gathered  in  behind  him  he  put  off  most 
of  the  frivolities  of  youth  and  held  now  only  to  the  one  of 
driving  a  fast  horse.  No  other  man  in  the  county  drove 
anything  faster  except  Squire  Hopkins,  and  him  the  deacon 
had  not  been  able  to  throw  the  dust  over.  The  deacon 
would  get  good  ones,  but  somehow  never  could  he  find  one 
that  the  squire  didn't  get  a  better.  The  squire  had  also 
in  the  early  days  beaten  the  deacon  in  the  race  for  a  cer 
tain  pretty  girl  he  dreamed  about.  But  the  girl  and  the 
squire  had  lived  happily  ever  after  and  the  deacon,  being  a 
philosopher,  might  have  forgotten  the  squire's  superiority 
had  it  been  manifested  in  this  one  regard  only.  But  u? 
horses,  too — that  graveled  the  deacon. 

"How  much  did  you  give  for  him?"  was  the  widow's  first 
query,  after  they  had  reached  a  stretch  of  road  that  was 
good  going  and  the  deacon  had  let  him  out  for  a  length 
or  two. 

"Well,  what  do  you  suppose?    You're  a  judge." 

"More  than  I  would  give,  I'll  bet  a  cookie." 

"Not  if  you  was  as  anxious  as  I  am  to  show  Hopkins 
that  he  can't  drive  by  everything  on  the  pike." 

"I  thought  you  loved  a  good  horse  because  he  was  a 
good  horse,"  said  the  widow,  rather  disapprovingly. 

"I  do,  but  I  could  love  him  a  good  deal  harder  if  he 
would  stay  in  front  of  Hopkins's  best." 

"Does  he  know  you've  got  this  one?" 

"Yes,  and  he's  been  blowing  round  town  that  he  is  wait 
ing  to  pick  me  up  on  the  road  some  day  and  make  my 
five  hundred  dollars  look  like  a  pewter  quarter." 

"So  you  gave  five  hundred  dollars  for  him,  did  you?" 
laughed  the  widow. 

"Is  it  too  much?" 

"Um-er,"  hesitated  the  widow,  glancing  along  the  grace 
ful  lines  of  the  powerful  trotter,  "I  suppose  not  if  you  can 
beat  the  squire." 

"Right  you  are,"  crowed  the  deacon,  "and  111  show  him 
a  thing  or  two  in  getting  over  the  ground,"  he  added  with 
swelling  pride. 


J56    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

"Well,  I  hope  he  won't  be  out  looking  for  you  today,  with 
me  in  your  sleigh,"  said  the  widow,  almost  apprehensively, 
"because,  you  know,  deacon,  I  have  always  wanted  you  to 
beat  Squire  Hopkins." 

The  deacon  looked  at  her  sharply.  There  was  a  softness 
in  her  tones  that  appealed  to  him,  even  if  she  had  not  ex 
pressed  such  agreeable  sentiments.  Just  what  the  deacon 
might  have  said  or  done  after  the  impulse  had  been  set  going 
must  remain  unknown,  for  at  the  crucial  moment  a  sound 
of  militant  bells,  bells  of  defiance,  jangled  up  behind  them, 
disturbing  their  personal  absorption,  and  they  looked  around 
simultaneously.  Behind  the  bells  was  the  squire  in  his 
sleigh  drawn  by  his  fastest  stepper,  and  he  was  alone,  as 
the  deacon  was  not.  The  widow  weighed  one  hundred  and 
sixty  pounds,  net — which  is  weighting  a  horse  in  a  race 
rather  more  than  the  law  allows. 

But  the  deacon  never  thought  of  that.  Forgetting  every 
thing  except  his  cherished  ambition,  he  braced  himself  for 
the  contest,  took  a  twist  hold  on  the  lines,  sent  a  sharp, 
quick  call  to  his  horse,  and  let  him  out  for  all  that  was  in 
him.  The  squire  followed  suit  and  the  deacon.  The  road 
was  wide  and  the  snow  was  worn  down  smooth.  The 
track  couldn't  have  been  in  better  condition.  The  Hopkins 
colors  were  not  five  rods  behind  the  Hawkins  colors  as  they 
got  away.  For  half  a  mile  it  was  nip  and  tuck,  the  deacon 
encouraging  his  horse  and  the  widow  encouraging  the  dea 
con,  and  then  the  squire  began  creeping  up.  The  deacon's 
horse  was  a  good  one,  but  he  was  not  accustomed  to  hauling 
freight  in  a  race.  A  half-mile  of  it  was  as  much  as  he 
could  stand,  and  he  weakened  under  the  strain. 

Not  handicapped,  the  squire's  horse  forged  ahead,  and  as 
his  nose  pushed  up  to  the  dashboard  of  the  deacon's  sleigh, 
that  good  man  groaned  in  agonized  disappointment  and  bit 
terness  of  spirit.  The  widow  was  mad  all  over  that  Squire 
Hopkins  should  take  such  a  mean  advantage  of  his  rival. 
Why  didn't  he  wait  till  another  time  when  the  deacon  was 
alone,  as  he  was?  If  she  had  her  way  she  never  would 
speak  to  Squire  Hopkins  again,  nor  to  his  wife,  either.  But 
her  resentment  was  not  helping  the  deacon's  horse  to  win. 


HOW  THE  WIDOW  WON  THE  DEACON      257 

Slowly  the  squire  pulled  closer  to  the  front;  the  deacon's 
horse,  realizing  what  it  meant  to  his  master  and  to  him, 
spurted  bravely,  but,  struggle  as  gamely  as  he  might,  tne 
odds  were  too  many  for  him,  and  he  dropped  to  the  rear. 
The  squire  shouted  in  triumph  as  he  drew  past  the  deacon, 
and  the  dejected  Hawkins  shrivelled  into  a  heap  on  the 
seat,  with  only  his  hands  sufficiently  alive  to  hold  the  lines. 
He  had  been  beaten  again,  humiliated  before  a  woman,  and 
that,  too,  with  the  best  horse  that  he  could  hope  to  put 
against  the  ever-conquering  squire.  Here  sank  his  fondest 
hopes,  here  ended  his  ambition.  From  this  on  he  would 
drive  a  mule  or  an  automobile.  The  fruit  of  his  desire 
had  turned  to  ashes  in  his  mouth. 

But  no.  What  of  the  widow?  She  realized,  if  the  deacon 
did  not,  tiiat  she,  not  the  squire's  horse,  had  beaten  the 
deacon's,  and  she  was  ready  to  make  what  atonement  she 
could.  As  the  squire  passed  ahead  of  the  deacon  she  was 
starred  by  a  noble  resolve.  A  deep  bed  of  drifted  snow  lay 
close  by  the  side  of  the  road  not  far  in  front.  It  was  soft 
and  safe  and  she  smiled  as  she  looked  at  it  as  though  wait 
ing  for  her.  Without  a  hint  of  her  purpose,  or  a  sign  to* 
disturb  the  deacon  in  his  final  throes,  she  rose  as  the  sleigh 
ran  near  its  edge,  and  with  a  spring  which  had  many  a 
time  sent  her  lightly  from  the  ground  to  the  bare  back  of 
a  horse  in  the  meadow,  she  cleared  the  robes  and  lit  plump 
in  the  drift.  The  deacon's  horse  knew  before  the  deacon 
did  that  something  had  happened  in  his  favor,  and  was 
quick  to  respond.  With  his  first  jump  of  relief  the  deacon 
suddenly  revived,  his  hopes  came  fast  again,  his  blood  re- 
tingled,  he  gathered  himself,  and,  cracking  his  lines,  he  shot 
forward,  and  three  minutes  later  he  had  passed  the  squire 
as  though  he  were  nitched  to  the  fence.  For  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  the  squire  made  heroic  efforts  to  recover  his  vanished 
prestige,  but  effort  was  useless,  and  finally  concluding  that 
he  was  practically  left  standing,  he  veered  off  from  the  main 
road  down  a  farm  lane  to  find  some  spot  in  which  to  hide 
the  humiliation  of  his  defeat.  The  deacon,  still  going  at  a 
dipping  gait,  had  one  eye  over  his  shoulder  as  wary  drivers 
always  have  on  such  occasions,  and  when  he  saw  the  squire 


258    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

was  off  the  track  he  slowed  down  and  jogged  along  with  the 
apparent  intention  of  continuing  indefinitely.  Presently  an 
idea  struck  him,  and  he  looked  around  for  the  widow.  She 
was  not  where  he  had  seen  her  last.  Where  was  she?  In 
the  enthusiasm  of  victory  he  had  forgotten  her.  He  was  so 
dejected  at  the  moment  she  had  leaped  that  he  did  not 
realize  what  she  had  done,  and  two  minutes  later  he  was 
so  elated  that,  shame  on  him!  he  did  not  care.  With  her, 
all  was  lost;  without  her,  all  was  won,  and  the  deacon's 
greatest  ambition  was  to  win.  But  now,  with  victory 
perched  on  his  horse-collar,  success  his  at  last,  he  thought 
of  the  widow,  and  he  did  care.  He  cared  so  much  that  he 
almost  threw  his  horse  off  his  feet  by  the  abrupt  turn  he 
gave  him,  and  back  down  the  pike  he  flew  as  if  a  legion  of 
squires  were  after  him. 

He  did  not  know  what  injury  she  might  have  sustained; 
$he  might  have  been  seriously  hurt,  if  not  actually  killed. 
And  why?  Simply  to  make  it  possible  for  him  to  win.  The 
deacon  shivered  as  he  thought  of  it,  and  urged  his  horse  to 
greater  speed.  The  squire,  down  the  lane,  saw  him  whizzing 
along  and  accepted  it  profanely  as  an  exhibition  for  his 
especial  benefit.  The  deacon  now  had  forgotten  the  squire 
as  he  had  only  so  shortly  before  forgotten  the  widow.  Two 
hundred  yards  from  the  drift  into  which  she  had  jumped 
there  was  a  turn  in  the  road,  where  some  trees  shut  off  the 
sight,  and  the  deacon's  anxiety  increased  momentarily  until 
he  reached  this  point.  From  here  he  could  see  ahead,  and 
down  there  in  the  middle  of  the  road  stood  the  widow  wav 
ing  her  shawl  as  a  banner  of  triumph,  though  she  could 
only  guess  at  results.  The  deacon  came  on  with  a  rush, 
and  pulled  up  alongside  of  her  in  a  condition  of  nervous 
ness  he  didn't  think  possible  to  him. 

"Hoc-ray!  hooray!  '  shouted  the  widow,  tossing  her  shawl 
into  the  air.  You  beat  him.  I  know  you  did.  Didn't 
you?  i  saw  you  pulling  ahead  at  the  turn  yonder.  Where 
is  ne  and  his  old  plug?" 

"Oh,  bother  take  him  and  his  horse  and  the  race  and 
everything.  Are  you  hurt?"  gasped  the  deacon,  jumping 
out,  but  mindful  to  keep  the  lines  in  his  hand.  "Are  you 


HOW  THE  WIDOW  WON  THE  DEACON      259 

hurt?"  he  repeated,  anxiously,  though  she  looked  anything 
but  a  hurt  woman. 

"If  I  am,"  she  chirped,  cheerily,  "I'm  not  hurt  half  as 
bad  as  I  would  have  been  if  the  squire  had  beat  you,  deacon. 
Now  don't  you  worry  about  me.  Let's  hurry  back  to  town 
so  the  squire  won't  get  another  chance,  with  no  place  for 
me  to  jump." 

And  the  deacon?  Well,  well,  with  the  lines  in  the  croofc 
of  his  elbow  the  deacon  held  out  his  arms  to  the  wido-vc 

and .  The  sisters  at  the  next  meeting  of  the  Sewing 

Society  were  unanimously  of  the  opinion  that  any  woman 
who  would  risk  her  life  like  that  for  a  husband  was  mighty 
anxious. 


GIDEON 

BY  WELLS  HASTINGS  (1878-        ) 


6*  \  ^'  ^^  nex'  fr"aw»  dat  houn'  PUP  seen,  he  pass  him 

r\  by  wide." 

The  house,  which  had  hung  upon  every  word,  roared 
with  laughter,  and  shook  with  a  storming  volley  of  applause. 
Gideon  bowed  to  right  and  to  left,  low,  grinning,  assured 
comedy  obeisances;  but  as  the  laughter  and  applause  grew 
he  shook  his  head,  and  signaled  quietly  for  the  drop.  He 
had  answered  many  encores,  and  he  was  an  instinctive  ar 
tist.  It  was  part  of  the  fuel  of  his  vanity  that  his  audience 
had  never  yet  had  enough  of  him.  Dramatic  judgment,  as 
•well  as  dramatic  sense  of  delivery,  was  native  to  him,  quali 
ties  which  the  shrewd  Felix  Stuhk,  his  manager  and  ex 
ultant  discoverer,  recognized  and  wisely  trusted  in.  Off 
stage  Gideon  was  watched  over  like  a  child  and  a  delicate  in 
vestment,  but  once  behind  the  footlights  he  was  allowed  to 
go  his  own  triumphant  gait. 

It  was  small  wonder  that  Stuhk  deemed  himself  one  of 
the  cleverest  managers  in  the  business;  that  his  narrow,  blue- 
shaven  face  was  continually  chiseled  in  smiles  of  complacent 
self-congratulation.  He  was  rapidly  becoming  rich,  and 
there  were  bright  prospects  of  even  greater  triumphs,  with 
proportionately  greater  reward.  He  had  made  Gideon  a 
national  character,  a  headliner,  a  star  of  the  first  magnitude 
in  the  firmament  of  tiie  vaudeville  theater,  and  all  in  six 
short  months.  Or,  at  any  rate,  he  had  helped  to  make  him 
all  this;  he  had  booked  him  well  and  given  him  his  oppor 
tunity.  To  be  sure,  Gideon  had  done  the  rest;  Stuhk  was  as 

From  The  Century  Magazine,  April,  1914;  copyright,  1914,  by 
The  Century  Co.  ;  republished  by  the  author's  permission. 

260 


GIDEON  261 

ready  as  any  one  to  do  credit  to  Gideon's  ability.  Stillj 
after  all,  he,  Stuhk,  -was  the  discoverer,  the  theatrical  Colum1 
bus  who  had  had  the  courage  and  the  vision. 

A  now-hallowed  attack  of  tonsilitis  had  driven  him  to 
Florida,  where  presently  Gideon  had  been  employed  to  be 
guile  his  convalescence,  and  guide  him  over  the  intricate 
shallows  of  that  long  lagoon  known  as  the  Indian  River  in 
search  of  various  fish.  On  days  when  fish  had  been  reluctant 
Gideon  had  been  lured  into  conversation,  and  gradually  into 
narrative  and  the  relation  of  what  had  appeared  to  Gideon 
as  humorous  and  entertaining;  and  finally  Felix,  the  vague 
idea  growing  big  within  him,  had  one  day  persuaded  his 
boatman  to  dance  upon  the  boards  of  a  long  pier  where  they 
had  made  fast  for  lunch.  There,  with  all  the  sudden  glory 
of  crystallization,  the  vague  idea  took  definite  form  and  be 
came  the  great  inspiration  of  Stuhk's  career. 

Gideon  had  grown  to  be  to  vaudeville  much  what  Uncle 
Remus  is  to  literature:  there  was  virtue  in  his  very  simplicity. 
His  artistry  itself  was  native  and  natural.  He  loved  a  good 
story,  and  he  told  it  from  his  own  sense  of  the  gleeful  morsel 
upon  his  tongue  as  no  training  could  have  made  him.  He 
always  enjoyed  his  story  and  himself  in  the  telling.  Tales 
never  lost  their  savor,  no  matter  how  often  repeated;  age 
was  powerless  to  dim  the  humor  of  the  thing,  and  as  he  had 
shouted  and  gurgled  and  laughed  over  the  fun  of  things 
•when  all  alone,  or  holding  forth  among  the  men  and  women 
and  Tittle  children  of  his  color,  so  he  shouted  and  gurgled 
and  broke  from  sonorous  chuckles  to  musical,  falsetto  mirth 
when  he  fronted  the  sweeping  tiers  of  faces  across  the  in 
toxicating  glare  of  the  footlights.  He  had  that  rare  power 
of  transmitting  something  of  his  own  enjoyments.  When 
Gideon  was  on  the  stage,  Stuhk  used  to  enjoy  peeping  out 
at  the  intent,  smiling  faces  of  the  audience,  where  men  and 
women  and  children,  hardened  theater-goers  and  folk  fresh 
from  the  country,  sat  with  moving  lips  and  faces  lit  with  an 
eager  interest  and  sympathy  for  the  black  man  strutting  in 
loose-footed  vivacity  before  them. 

"He's  simply  unique,"  he  boasted  to  wondering  local  man- 
"unique,  and  it  took  me  to  find  him.  There  he  was, 


262    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

a  little  black  gold-mine,  and  all  of  'em  passed  him  by  until 
I  came.  Some  eye?  What?  I  guess  you'll  admit  you  have 
to  hand  it  some  to  your  Uncle  Felix.  If  that  coon's  health 
holds  out,  we'll  have  all  the  money  there  is  in  the  mint." 

That  was  Felix's  real  anxiety — "If  his  health  holds  out." 
Gideon's  health  was  watched  over  as  if  he  had  been  an  ail 
ing  prince.  His  bubbling  vivacity  was  the  foundation  upon 
which  his  charm  and  his  success  were  built.  Stuhk  became 
a  sort  of  vicarious  neurotic,  eternally  searching  for  symptoms 
in  his  protege;  Gideon's  tongue,  Gideon's  liver,  Gideon's 
heart  were  matters  to  him  of  an  unfailing  and  anxious  in 
terest.  And  of  late — of  course  it  might  be  imagination — 
Gideon  had  shown  a  little  physical  falling  off.  He  ate  a  bit 
less,  he  had  begun  to  move  in  a  restless  way,  and,  worst  of 
all,  he  laughed  less  frequently. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  was  ground  for  Stuhk's  appre 
hension.  It  was  not  all  a  matter  of  managerial  imagination: 
Gideon  was  less  himself.  Physically  there  was  nothing  the 
matter  with  him;  he  could  have  passed  his  rigid  insurance 
scrutiny  as  easily  as  he  had  done  months  before,  when  his 
life  and  health  had  been  insured  for  a  sum  that  made  good 
copy  for  his  press-agent.  He  was  sound  in  every  organ,  but 
there  was  something  lacking  in  general  tone.  Gideon  felt  it 
himself,  and  was  certain  that  a  "misery,"  that  embracing  in 
disposition  of  his  race,  was  creeping  upon  him.  He  had  been 
fed  well,  too  well;  he  was  growing  rich,  too  rich;  he  had 
all  the  praise,  all  the  flattery  that  his  enormous  appetite  for 
approval  desired,  and  too  much  of  it.  White  men  sought 
him  out  and  made  much  of  him;  white  women  talked  to  him 
about  his  career;  and  wherever  he  went,  women  of  color — 
black  girls,  brown  girls,  yellow  girls — wrote  him  of  their 
admiration,  whispered,  when  he  would  listen,  of  their  pas 
sion  and  hero-worship.  "City  niggers"  bowed  down  before 
him;  the  high  gallery  was  always  packed  with  them.  Musk- 
scented  notes  scrawled  upon  barbaric,  "high-toned"  sta 
tionery  poured  in  upon  him.  Even  a  few  white  women,  to 
his  horror  and  embarrassment,  had  written  him  of  love,  let 
ters  which  he  straightway  destroyed.  His  sense  of  his  po 
sition  was  strong  in  him;  he  was  proud  of  it.  There  might 


GIDEON  263 

be  "folks  outer  their  haids,"  but  he  had  the  sense  to  remem 
ber.  For  months  he  had  lived  in  a  heaven  of  gratified  van 
ity,  but  at  last  his  appetite  had  begun  to  falter.  He  was 
sated ;  his  soul  longed  to  wipe  a  spiritual  mouth  on  the  back 
of  a  spiritual  hand,  and  have  done.  His  face,  now  that  the 
curtain  was  down  and  he  was  leaving  the  stage,  was  dole 
ful,  almost  sullen. 

Stuhk  met  him  anxiously  in  the  wings,  and  walked  with 
him  to  his  dressing-room.  He  felt  suddenly  very  weary  of 
Stuhk. 

"Nothing  the  matter,  Gideon,  is  there?  Not  feeling  sick 
or  anything?" 

"No,  Misteh  Stuhk;  no,  seh.  Jes  don'  feel  extry  pert, 
that's  all." 

"But  what  is  it — anything  bothering  you?" 

Gideon  sat  gloomily  before  his  mirror. 

"Misteh  Stuhk,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  been  steddyin'  it  oveh, 
and  I  about  come  to  the  delusion  that  I  needs  a  good  po'k- 
chop.  Seems  foolish,  I  know,  but  it  do'  seem  as  if  a  good 
po'k-chop,  fried  jes  right,  would  he'p  consid'able  to  disum- 
pate  this  misery  feelin'  that's  crawlin'  and  creepin'  round 
my  sperit." 

Stuhk  laughed. 

"Pork-chop,  eh?  Is  that  the  best  you  can  think  of?  I 
know  what  you  mean,  though.  I've  thought  for  some  time 
that  you  were  getting  a  little  overtrained.  What  you  need 
is — let  me  see — yes,  a  nice  bottle  of  wine.  That's  the  ticket; 
it  will  ease  things  up  and  won't  do  you  any  harm.  Ill  g& 
with  you.  Ever  had  any  champagne,  Gideon?" 

Gideon  struggled  for  politeness. 

"Yes,  seh,  I's  had  champagne,  and  it's  a  nice  kind  of 
lickeh  sho  enough;  but,  Misteh  Stuhk,  seh,  I  don'  want 
any  of  them  high-tone  drinks  to-night,  an'  ef  yo'  don'  mind, 
I'd  rather  amble  off  'lone,  or  mebbe  eat  that  po'k-chop  with 
some  otheh  cullud  man,  ef  I  kin  fin'  one  that  ain'  one  of 
them  no-'count  Carolina  niggers.  Do  you  s'pose  yo'  could 
let  me  have  a  little  money  to-night,  Misteh  Stuhk?" 

Stuhk  thought  rapidly.  Gideon  had  certainly  worked 
hard,  and  he  was  not  dissipated.  If  he  wanted  to  roam  the 


264    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

town  by  himself,  there  was  no  harm  in  it.  The  sullenness 
still  showed  in  the  black  face;  Heaven  knew  what  he  might 
do  if  he  suddenly  began  to  balk.  Stuhk  thought  it  wise  to 
consent  gracefully. 

"Good!"  he  said.  "Fly  to  it.  How  much  do  you  want? 
A  hundred?" 

"How  much  is  coming  to  me?" 

"About  a  thousand,  Gideon." 

"Well,  I'd  moughty  like  five  hun'red  of  it.  ef  that's 
'greeable  to  yoV 

Felix  whistled. 

"Five  hundred?  Pork-chops  must  be  coming  high.  You 
don't  want  to  carry  all  that  money  around,  do  you?" 

Gideon  did  not  answer;  he  looked  very  gloomy. 

Stuhk  hastened  to  cheer  him. 

"Of  course  you  can  have  anything  you  want.  Wait  a 
minute,  and  I  will  get  it  for  you. 

"I'll  bet  that  coon's  going  to  buy  himself  a  ring  or  some 
thing,"  he  reflected  as  he  went  in  search  of  the  local  manager 
and  Gideon's  money. 

But  Stuhk  was  wrong.  Gideon  had  no  intention  of  buy 
ing  himself  a  ring.  For  the  matter  of  that,  he  had  several 
that  were  amply  satisfactory.  They  had  size  and  sparkle 
and  luster,  all  the  diamond  brilliance  that  rings  need  to 
have;  and  for  none  of  them  had  he  paid  much  over  five  dol 
lars.  He  was  amply  supplied  with  jewelry  in  which  he  felt 
perfect  satisfaction.  His  present  want  was  positive,  if 
nebulous;  he  desired  a  fortune  in  his  pocket,  bulky,  tangible 
evidence  of  his  miraculous  success.  Ever  since  Stuhk  had 
found  him,  life  had  had  an  unreal  quality  for  him.  His 
Monte  Cristo  wealth  was  too  much  like  a  fabulous,  dream- 
found  treasure,  money  that  could  not  be  spent  without  dan 
ger  of  awakening.  And  he  had  dropped  into  the  habit  of 
storing  it  about  him,  so  that  in  any  pocket  into  which  he 
plunged  his  hand  he  might  find  a  roll  of  crisp  evidence  of 
reality.  He  liked  his  bills  to  be  of  all  denominations,  and 
some  so  large  as  exquisitely  to  stagger  imagination,  others 
charming  by  their  number  and  crispness — the  dignified, 
orange  paper  of  a  man  of  assured  position  and  wealth — 


GIDEON  265 

crackling  greenbacks  the  design  of  which  tinged  the  whole 
with  actuality.  He  was  specially  partial  to  engravings  of 
President  Lincoln,  the  particular  savior  and  patron  of  his 
race.  This  five  hundred  dollars  he  was  adding  to  an  unreck- 
oned  sum  of  about  two  thousand,  merely  as  extra  fortification 
against  a  growing  sense  of  gloom.  He  wished  to  brace  his 
flagging  spirits  with  the  gay  wine  of  possession,  and  he  was 
glad,  when  the  money  came,  that  it  was  in  an  elastic-bound 
roll,  so  bulky  that  it  was  pleasantly  uncomfortable  in  his 
pocket  as  he  left  his  manager. 

As  he  turned  into  the  brilliantly  lighted  street  from  the 
somber  alleyway  of  the  stage  entrance,  he  paused  for  a 
moment  to  glance  at  his  own  name,  in  three-foot  letters  of 
red,  before  the  doors  of  the  theater.  He  could  read,  and 
the  large  block  type  always  pleased  him.  "THIS  WEEK: 
GIDEON."  That  was  all.  None  of  the  fulsome  praise,  the 
superlative,  necessary  definition  given  to  lesser  performers. 
He  had  been,  he  remembered,  "GIDEON,  America's  Fore 
most  Native  Comedian,"  a  title  that  was  at  once  boast  and 
challenge.  That  necessity  was  now  past,  for  he  was  a  na 
tional  character;  any  explanatory  qualification  would  have 
been  an  insult  to  the  public  intelligence.  To  the  world  he 
was  just  "Gideon";  that  was  enough.  It  gave  him  pleasure, 
as  he  sauntered  along,  to  see  the  announcement  repeated  on 
window  cards  and  hoardings. 

Presently  he  came  to  a  window  before  which  he  paused  in 
delighted  wonder.  It  was  not  a  large  window;  to  the  casual 
eye  of  the  passer-by  there  was  little  to  draw  attention.  By 
day  it  lighted  the  fractional  floor  space  of  a  little  stationer, 
who  supplemented  a  slim  business  by  a  sub-agency  for  rail 
road  and  steamship  lines;  but  to-night  this  window  seemed 
the  framework  of  a  marvel  of  coincidence.  On  the  broad, 
dusty  sill  inside  were  propped  two  cards:  the  one  on  the  left 
was  his  own  red-lettered  announcement  for  the  week;  the 
one  at  the  right — oh,  world  of  wonders! — was  a  photogravure 
of  that  exact  stretch  of  the  inner  coast  of  Florida  which 
Gideon  knew  best,  which  was  home. 

There  it  was,  the  Indian  River,  rippling  idly  in  full  sun 
light,,  palmettos  leaning  over  the  water,  palmettos  standing 


266    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

as  irregular  sentries  along  the  low,  reeflike  island  which 
stretched  away  out  of  the  picture.  There  was  the  gigantic, 
lonely  pine  he  knew  well,  and,  yes — he  could  just  make  it 
out — there  was  his  own  ramshackle  little  pier,  which  stretched 
in  undulating  fashion,  like  a  long-legged,  wading  caterpillar, 
from  the  abrupt  shore-line  of  eroded  coquina  into  deep 
water. 

He  thought  at  first  that  this  picture  of  his  home  was  some 
new  and  delicate  device  put  forth  by  his  press-agent.  His 
name  on  one  side  of  a  window,  his  birthplace  upon  the 
other — what  could  be  more  tastefully  appropriate?  There 
fore,  as  he  spelled  out  the  reading-matter  beneath  the  photo 
gravure,  he  was  sharply  disappointed.  It  read: 

Spend  this  winter  in  balmy  Florida. 

Come  to  the  Land  of  Perpetual  Sunshine. 

Golf,  tennis,  driving,  shooting,  boating,  fishing,  all  of  the  best. 

There  was  more,  but  he  had  no  heart  for  it;  he  was  disap 
pointed  and  puzzled.  This  picture  had,  after  all,  nothing  to 
do  with  him.  It  was  a  chance,  and  yet,  what  a  strange 
chance!  It  troubled  and  upset  him.  His  black,  round- 
featured  face  took  on  deep  wrinkles  of  perplexity.  The 
"misery"  which  had  hung  darkly  on  his  horizon  for  weeks 
engulfed  him  without  warning.  But  in  the  very  bitterness 
of  his  melancholy  he  knew  at  last  his  disease.  It  was  not 
champagne  or  recreation  that  he  needed,  not  even  a  "po'k- 
chop,"  although  his  desire  for  it  had  been  a  symptom,  a 
groping  for  a  too  homeopathic  remedy:  he  was  homesick. 

Easy,  childish  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  and  ran  over  his 
shining  cheeks.  He  shivered  forlornly  with  a  sudden  sense 
of  cold,  and  absently  clutched  at  the  lapels  of  his  gorgeous, 
fur-lined  ulster. 

Then  in  abrupt  reaction  he  laughed  aloud,  so  that  the 
shrill,  musical  falsetto  startled  the  passers-by,  and  in  another 
moment  a  little  semicircle  of  the  curious  watched  spell 
bound  as  a  black  man,  exquisitely  appareled,  danced  in  wild, 
loose  grace  before  the  dull  background  of  a  somewhat  grimy 
and  apparently  vacant  window.  A  newsboy  recognized  him. 


GIDEON  267 

He  heard  his  name  being  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and 
came  partly  to  his  senses.  He  stopped  dancing,  and  grinned 
at  them. 

"Say,  you  are  Gideon,  ain't  you?"  his  discoverer  de 
manded,  with  a  sort  of  reverent  audacity. 

"Yaas,  seh,"  said  Gideon;  "that's  me.  Yo'  shu  got  it 
right."  He  broke  into  a  joyous  peal  of  laughter — the  laugh 
ter  that  had  made  him  famous,  and  bowed  deeply  before 
him.  "Gideon — posi-tive-ly  his  las'  puffawmunce."  Turn 
ing,  he  dashed  for  a  passing  trolley,  and,  still  laughing,  swung 
aboard. 

He  was  naturally  honest.  In  a  land  of  easy  morality  his 
friends  had  accounted  him  something  of  a  paragon;  nor  had 
Stuhk  ever  had  anything  but  praise  for  him.  But  now  he 
crushed  aside  the  ethics  of  his  intent  without  a  single 
troubled  thought.  Running  away  has  always  been  inherent 
in  the  negro.  He  gave  one  regretful  thought  to  the  gorgeous 
wardrobe  he  was  leaving  behind  him;  but  he  dared  not  re 
turn  for  it.  Stuhk  might  have  taken  it  into  his  head  to  go 
back  to  their  rooms.  He  must  content  himself  with  the  re 
flection  that  he  was  at  that  moment  wearing  his  best. 

The  trolley  seemed  too  slow  for  him,  'and,  as  always  hap 
pened  nowadays,  he  was  recognized ;  he  heard  his  name  whis 
pered,  and  was  aware  of  the  admiring  glances  of  the  curi 
ous.  Even  popularity  had  its  drawbacks.  He  got  down  in 
front  of  a  big  hotel  and  chose  a  taxicab  from  the  waiting 
rank,  exporting  the  driver  to  make  his  best  speed  to  the 
station.  Leaning  back  in  the  soft  depths  of  the  cab,  he 
savored  his  independence,  cheered  already  by  the  swaying, 
lurching  speed.  At  the  station  he  tipped  the  driver  in  lordly 
fashion,  very  much  pleased  with  himself  and  anxious  to  give 
pleasure.  Only  the  sternest  prudence  and  an  unconquer 
able  awe  of  uniform  had  kept  him  from  tossing  bills  to  the 
various  traffic  policemen  who  had  seemed  to  smile  upon  his 
hurry. 

No  through  train  left  for  hours;  but  after  the  first  disap 
pointment  of  momentary  check,  he  decided  that  he  was  more 
pleased  than  otherwise.  It  would  save  embarrassment.  He 
was  going  South,  where  his  color  would  be  more  considered 


268    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

than  his  reputation,  and  on  the  little  local  he  chose  there 
was  a  "Jim  Crow"  car — one,  that  is,  specially  set  aside  for 
those  of  his  race.  That  it  proved  crowded  and  full  of 
smoke  did  not  trouble  him  at  all,  nor  did  the  admiring  pleas 
antries  which  the  splendor  of  his  apparel  immediately  called 
forth.  No  one  knew  him;  indeed,  he  was  naturally  enough 
mistaken  for  a  prosperous  gambler,  a  not  unflattering  sup 
position.  In  the  yard,  after  the  train  pulled  out,  he  saw  his 
private  car  under  a  glaring  arc  light,  and  grinned  to  see  it 
left  behind. 

He  spent  the  night  pleasantly  in  a  noisy  game  of  high- 
low-jack,  and  the  next  morning  slept  more  soundly  than  he 
had  slept  for  weeks,  hunched  upon  a  wooden  bench  in  the 
boxlike  station  of  a  North  Carolina  junction.  The  ex 
press  would  have  brought  him  to  Jacksonville  in  twenty-four 
hours;  the  journey,  as  he  took  it,  boarding  any  local  that 
happened  to  be  going  south,  and  leaving  it  for  meals  or 
sometimes  for  sleep  or  often  as  the  whim  possessed  him, 
filled  five  happy  days.  There  he  took  a  night  train,  and 
dozed  from  Jacksonville  until  a  little  north  of  New  Smyrna. 

He  awoke  to  find  it  broad  daylight,  and  the  car  half 
empty.  The  train  was  on  a  siding,  with  news  of  a  freight 
wreck  ahead.  Gideon  stretched  himself,  and  looked  out  of 
the  window,  and  emotion  seized  him.  For  all  his  journey 
the  South  had  seemed  to  welcome  him,  but  here  at  last  was 
the  country  he  knew.  He  went  out  upon  the  platform  and 
threw  back  his  head,  sniffing  the  soft  breeze,  heavy  with 
the  mysterious  thrill  of  unplowed  acres,  the  wondrous  ex 
istence  of  primordial  jungle,  where  life  has  rioted  unceasingly 
above  unceasing  decay.  It  was  dry  with  the  fine  dust  of 
waste  places,  and  wet  with  the  warm  mists  of  slumbering 
swamps;  it  seemed  to  Gideon  to  tremble  with  the  songs  of 
birds,  the  dry  murmur  of  palm  leaves,  c.nd  the  almost  in 
audible  whisper  of  the  gray  moss  that  festooned  the  live- 
oaks. 

"Um-m-m,"  he  murmured,  apostrophizing  it,  "yo'  's  the 
right  kind  o'  breeze,  yo'  is.  Yo'-all  's  healthy."  Still  snif 
fing,  he  climbed  down  to  the  dusty  road-bed. 

The  negroes  who  had  ridden  with  him  were  sprawled 


GIDEON  269 

about  him  on  the  ground;  one  of  them  lay  sleeping,  face  up, 
in  the  sunlight.  The  train  had  evidently  been  there  for 
some  time,  and  there  were  no  signs  of  an  immediate  de 
parture.  He  bought  some  oranges  of  a  little,  bowlegged 
black  boy,  and  sat  down  on  a  log  to  eat  them  and  to  give 
up  his  mind  to  enjoyment.  The  sun  was  hot  upon  him,  and 
his  thoughts  were  vague  and  drowsy.  He  was  glad  that  he 
was  alive,  glad  to  be  back  once  more  among  familiar  scenes. 
Down  the  length  of  the  train  he  saw  white  passengers  from 
the  Pullmans  restlessly  pacing  up  and  down,  getting  into 
their  cars  and  out  of  them,  consulting  watches,  attaching 
themselves  with  gesticulatory  expostulation  to  various  offi 
cials;  but  their  impatience  found  no  echo  in  his  thought. 
What  was  the  hurry?  There  was  plenty  of  time.  It  was 
sufficient  to  have  come  to  his  own  land;  the  actual  walls  of 
home  could  wait.  The  delay  was  pleasant,  with  its  oppor 
tunity  for  drowsy  sunning,  its  relief  from  the  grimy  monot 
ony  of  travel.  He  glanced  at  the  orange-colored  "Jim 
Crow"  with  distaste,  and  inspiration,  dawning  slowly  upon 
him,  swept  all  other  thought  before  it  in  its  great  and  grow 
ing  glory. 

A  brakeman  passed,  and  Gideon  leaped  to  his  feet  and 
pursued  him. 

"Misteh,  how  long  yo'-all  reckon  this  train  goin'  to  be?" 

"About  an  hour." 

The  question  had  been  a  mere  matter  of  form.  Gideon 
had  made  up  his  mind,  and  if  he  had  been  told  that  they 
started  in  five  minutes  he  would  not  have  changed  it.  He 
climbed  back  into  the  car  for  his  coat  and  his  hat,  and  then 
almost  furtively  stole  down  the  steps  again  and  slipped 
quietly  into  the  palmetto  scrub. 

"  'Most  made  the  mistake  of  ma  life,"  he  chuckled, 
"stickin'  to  that  ol'  tram  foheveh.  T  isn't  the  right  way  at 
all  fob  Gideon  to  come  home." 

The  river  was  not  far  away.    He  could  catch  the  dancing 
blue  of  it  from  time  to  time  in  ragged  vista,  and  for  thit 
beacon  he  steered  directly.    His  coat  was  heavy  on  his  arm 
his  thin  patent-leather  ties  pinched  and  burned   and  de 
manded  detours  around  swampy  places,  but  he  was  happy 


270    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

As  he  went  along,  his  plan  perfected  itself.  He  would  get 
into  loose  shoes  again,  old  ones,  if  money  could  buy  them, 
and  old  clothes,  too.  The  bull-briers  snatching  at  his  tail 
ored  splendor  suggested  that. 

He  laughed  when  the  Florida  partridge,  a  small  quail, 
whirred  up  from  under  his  feet;  he  paused  to  exchange  af 
fectionate  mockery  with  red  squirrels;  and  once,  even  when 
he  was  brought  up  suddenly  to  a  familiar  and  ominous,  dry 
reverberation,  the  small,  crisp  sound  of  the  rolling  drums  of 
death,  he  did  not  look  about  him  for  some  instrument  of 
destruction,  as  at  'any  other  time  he  would  have  done,  but 
instead  peered  cautiously  over  the  log  before  him.  and  spoke 
in  tolerant  admonition: 

"Now,  Misteh  Rattlesnake,  yo'  jes  min'  yo'  own  busi 
ness.  Nobody  's  goin'  step  on  yo',  ner  go  triflin'  roun'  yo' 
in  no  way  whatsomeveh.  Yo'  jes  lay  there  in  the  sun  an' 
git  's  fat  's  yo'  please.  Don'  yo'  tu'n  yo'  weeked  HT  eyes  on 
Gideon.  He's  jes  goin'  'long  home,  an'  am'  lookin'  fob 
no  muss." 

He  came  presently  to  the  water,  and,  as  luck  would  have 
it,  to  a  little  group  of  negro  cabins,  where  he  was  able  to 
buy  old  clothes  and,  after  much  dickering,  a  long  and  some 
what  leaky  rowboat  rigged  out  with  a  tattered  leg-of-mutton 
sail.  This  he  provisioned  with  a  jug  of  water,  a  starch  box 
full  of  white  corn-meal,  and  a  wide  strip  of  lean  razorback 
bacon. 

As  he  pushed  out  from  shore  and  set  his  sail  to  the  small 
breeze  that  blew  down  from  the  north,  an  absolute  con 
tentment  possessed  him.  The  idle  waters  of  the  lagoon,  lying 
without  tide  or  current  in  eternal  indolence,  rippled  and 
sparkled  in  breeze  and  sunlight  with  a  merry  surface  activ 
ity,  and  seemed  to  lap  the  leaky  little  boat  more  swiftly  on 
its  way.  Mosquito  Inlet  opened  broadly  before  him,  and 
skirting  the  end  of  Merritt's  Island  he  came  at  last  into 
that  longest  lagoon,  with  which  he  was  most  familiar,  the 
Indian  River.  Here  the  wind  died  down  to  a  mere  breath, 
which  barely  kept  his  boat  in  motion;  but  he  made  no  at 
tempt  to  row.  As  long  as  he  moved  at  all,  he  was  satisfied. 
He  was  living  the  fulfilment  of  his  dreams  in  exile,  lounging 


GIDEON 

in  the  stern  in  the  ancient  clothes  he  nad  purchased,  his  feet 
stretched  comfortably  before  him  in  their  broken  shoes,  one 
foot  upon  a  thwart,  the  other  hanging  overside  so  laxly  that 
occasional  ripples  lapped  the  run-over  heel.  From  time 
to  time  he  scanned  shore  and  river  for  familiar  points  of  in 
terest — some  remembered  snag  that  showed  the  tip  of  one 
gnarled  branch.  Or  he  marked  a  newly  fallen  palmetto, 
already  rotting  in  the  water,  which  must  be  added  to  that 
map  of  vast  detail  that  he  carried  in  his  head.  But  for 
the  most  part  his  broad  black  face  was  turned  up  to  the 
blue  brilliance  above  him  in  unblinking  contemplation;  his 
keen  eyes,  brilliant  despite  their  sun-muddied  whites,  reveled 
in  the  heights  above  him,  swinging  from  horizon  to  horizon 
in  the  wake  of  an  orderly  file  of  little  bluebill  ducks,  wing 
ing  their  way  across  the  river,  or  brightening  with  interest 
at  the  rarer  sight  of  a  pair  of  mallards  or  redheads,  lifting 
with  the  soaring  circles  of  the  great  bald-headed  eagle,  or 
following  the  scattered  squadron  of  heron — white  heron, 
blue  heron,  young  and  old,  trailing,  sunlit,  brilliant  patches, 
dear  even  against  the  bright  white  and  blue  of  the  sky 
above  them. 

Often  he  laughed  aloud,  sending  a  great  shout  of  mirth 
across  the  water  in  fresh  relish  of  those  comedies  best  known 
and  best  enjoyed.  It  was  as  excruciatingly  funny  as  it  had 
ever  been,  when  his  boat  nosed  its  way  into  a  great  flock 
of  ducks  idling  upon  the  water,  to  see  the  mad  paddling 
haste  of  those  nearest  him,  the  reproachful  turn  of  their 
heads,  or,  if  he  came  too  near,  their  spattering  run  out  of 
water,  feet  and  wings  pumping  together  as  they  rose  from 
the  surface,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  fat  little  women, 
scurrying  with  clutched  skirts  across  city  streets.  The  peli 
cans,  too,  delighted  him  as  they  perched  with  pedantic 
solemnity  upon  wharf-piles,  or  sailed  in  hunched  and  hud 
dled  gravity  twenty  feet  above  the  river's  surface  in  swift, 
dignified  flight,  which  always  ended  suddenly  in  an  abrupt, 
up-ended  plunge  that  threw  dignity  to  the  winds  in  its 
greedy  haste,  and  dropped  them  crashing  into  the  water. 

When  darkness  came  suddenly  at  last,  he  made  in  toward 
shore,  mooring  to  the  worm-fretted  end  of  a  fallen  and  for- 


272    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

gotten  landing.  A  straggling  orange-grove  was  here,  broken 
lines  of  vanquished  cultivation,  struggling  little  trees  swathed 
and  choked  in  the  festooning  gray  moss,  still  showing  here 
and  there  the  valiant  golden  gleam  of  fruit.  Gideon  had 
seen  many  such  places,  had  seen  settlers  come  and  clear 
themselves  a  space  in  liie  jungle,  plant  their  groves,  and 
live  for  a  while  ki  lazy  independence;  and  then  for  some 
reason  or  other  they  would  go,  and  before  they  had  scarcely 
turned  their  backs,  the  jungle  had  crept  in  again,  patiently 
restoring  its  ancient  sovereignty.  The  place  was  eery  with 
the  ghost  of  dead  effort;  but  it  pleased  him. 

He  made  a  fire  and  cooked  supper,  eating  enormously  and 
with  relish.  His  conscience  did  not  trouble  him  at  all. 
Stuhk  and  his  own  career  seemed  already  distant;  they 
took  small  place  in  his  thoughts,  and  served  merely  as  a 
background  for  his  present  absolute  content.  He  picked 
some  oranges,  and  ate  them  in  meditative  enjoyment.  For 
a  while  he  nodded,  half  asleep,  beside  his  fire,  watching  the 
darkened  river,  where  the  mullet,  shimmering  with  phos 
phorescence,  still  leaped  starkly  above  the  surface,  and  fell 
in  spattering  brilliance.  Midnight  found  him  sprawled  asleep 
beside  his  fire. 

Once  he  awoke.  The  moon  had  risen,  and  a  little  breeze 
waved  the  hanging  moss,  and  Whispered  in  the  glossy  foliage 
of  orange  and  palmetto  with  a  sound  like  falling  rain. 
Gideon  sat  up  and  peered  about  him,  rolling  his  eyes  hither 
and  thither  at  the  menacing  leap  and  dance  of  the  jet  shad 
ows.  His  heart  was  beating  thickly,  his  muscles  twitched, 
and  the  awful  terrors  of  night  pulsed  and  shuddered  over 
him.  Nameless  specters  peered  at  him  from  every  shadow, 
ingenerate  familiars  of  his  wild,  forgotten  blood.  He  groaned 
aloud  in  a  delicious  terror;  and  presently,  still  twitching  and 
shivering,  fell  asleep  again.  It  was  as  if  something  magical 
had  happened;  his  fear  remembered  the  fear  of  centuries, 
and  yet  with  the  warm  daylight  was  absolutely  forgotten. 

He  got  up  a  little  after  sunrise,  and  went  down  to  the 
river  to  bathe,  diving  deep  with  a  joyful  sense  of  freeing 
himself  from  the  last  alien  dust  of  travel.  Once  ashore 
again,  however,  he  began  to  prepare  his  breakfast  with  some 


GIDEON  273 

haste.  For  the  first  time  in  his  journey  he  was  feeling  a 
sense  of  loneliness  and  a  longing  for  his  kind.  He  was  still 
happy,  but  his  laughter  began  to  seem  strange  to  him  in  the 
solitude.  He  tried  the  defiant  experiment  of  laughing  for 
the  effect  of  it,  an  experiment  which  brought  him  to  his 
feet  in  startled  terror;  for  his  laughter  was  echoed.  As  he 
stood  peering  about  him,  the  sound  came  again,  not  laughter 
this  time,  but  a  suppressed  giggle.  It  was  human  beyond 
a  doubt.  Gideon's  face  shone  with  relief  and  sympathetic 
amusement ;  he  listened  for  a  moment,  and  then  strode  surely 
forward  toward  a  clump  of  low  palms.  There  he  paused, 
every  sense  alert.  His  ear  caught  a  soft  rustle,  a  little  gasp 
of  fear;  the  sound  of  a  foot  moved  cautiously. 

"Missy,"  he  said  tentatively,  "I  reckon  yo'-all  's  come  jei,- 
'bout  'n  time  foh  breakfus.  Yo'  betteh  have  some.  Ef  yo' 
am'  too  white  to  sit  down  with  a  black  man." 

The  leaves  parted,  and  a  smiling  face  as  black  as  Gideon's 
own  regarded  him  in  shy  amusement. 

"Who  is  yo',  man?" 

"I  mought  be  king  of  Kongo,"  he  laughed,  "but  I  ain't. 
Yo'  see  befo'  yo'  jes  Gideon — at  yo'r  'steemed  sehvice."  He 
bowed  elaborately  in  the  mock  humility  of  assured  impor 
tance,  watching  her  face  in  pleasant  anticipation. 

But  neither  awe  nor  rapture  dawned  there.  She  repeated 
the  name,  inclining  her  head  coquettishly;  but  it  evidently 
meant  nothing  to  her.  She  was  merely  trying  its  sound. 
"Gideon,  Gideon.  I  don'  call  to  min'  any  sech  name  ez 
that.  Yo'-all  's  f 'om  up  No'th  likely."  He  was  beyond  the 
reaches  of  fame. 

"No,"  said  Gideon,  hardly  knowing  whether  he  was  glad 
or  sorry — "no,  I  live  south  of  heah.  What-all's  yo'  name?" 

The  girl  giggled  deliciously. 

"Man,"  she  said,  "I  shu  got  the  mos'  reediculoustest  name 
you  eveh  did  heah.  They  call  me  Vashti — yo'  bacon  '9 
bu'nin'."  She  stepped  out,  and  ran  past  him  to  snatch  hio 
skillet  deftly  from  the  fire. 

"Vashti" — a  strange  and  delightful  name.  Gideon  fol 
lowed  her  slowly.  Her  romantic  coming  and  her  romantic 
name  pleased  him;  and,  too,  he  thought  her  beautiful.  She 


*  74    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

was  scarcely  more  than  a  girl,  slim  and  strong  and  almost 
of  his  own  height.  She  was  barefooted,  but  her  blue-checked 
gingham  was  clean  and  belted  smartly  about  a  small  waist. 
He  remembered  only  one  woman  who  ran  as  lithely  as  she 
did,  one  of  the  numerous  "  diving  beauties"  of  the  vaudeville 
stage. 

She  cooked  their  breakfast,  but  he  served  her  with  an 
elaborate  gallantry,  putting  forward  all  his  new  and  foreign 
graces,  garnishing  his  speech  with  imposing  polysyllables, 
casting  about  their  picnic  breakfast  a  radiant  aura  of  gran 
deur  borrowed  from  the  recent  days  of  his  fame.  And  he 
saw  that  he  pleased  her,  and  with  her  open  admiration  es 
sayed  still  greater  flights  of  polished  manner. 

He  made  vague  plans  for  delaying  his  journey  as  they 
sat  smoking  in  pleasant  conversational  ease;  and  when  an 
interruption  came  it  vexed  him. 

"Vashty!  Vashty!"  a  woman's  voice  sounded  thin  and 
Car  away.  "Vashty-y!  Yo'  heah  me,  chile?" 

Vashti  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  sigh. 

"That's  my  ma,"  she  said  regretfully. 

"What  do  yo'  care?"  asked  Gideon.    "Let  her  yell  awhile." 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"Ma's  a  moughty  pow'ful  'oman,  and  she  done  got  a  club 
'bout  the  size  o'  my  wrist."  She  moved  off  a  step  or  so, 
and  glanced  back  at  him. 

Gideon  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"When  yo'  comin'  back?  Yo' — yo'  ain'  goin'  with 
out "  He  held  out  his  arms  to  her,  but  she  only  giggled 

and  began  to  walk  slowly  away.  With  a  bound  he  was  after 
her,  one  hand  catching  her  lightly  by  the  shoulder.  He  felt 
suddenly  that  he  must  not  lose  sight  of  her. 

"Let  me  go!  Tu'n  me  loose,  yo'!"  The  girl  was  still 
laughing,  but  evidently  troubled.  She  wrenched  herself 
away  with  an  effort,  only  to  be  caught  again  a  moment  later. 
She  screamed  and  struck  at  him  as  he  kissed  her;  for  now 
she  was  really  in  terror. 

The  blow  caught  Gideon  squarely  in  the  mouth,  and  with 
such  force  that  he  staggered  back,  astonished,  while  the  girl 
took  wildly  to  her  heels.  He  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute, 


GIDEON  175 

for  something  was  happening  to  him.  For  months  he  had 
evaded  love  with  a  gentle  embarrassment;  now,  with  the 
savage  crash  of  that  blow,  he  knew  unreasoningly  that  he 
had  found  his  woman. 

He  leaped  after  her  again,  running  as  he  had  not  run  in 
years,  in  savage,  determined  pursuit,  tearing  through  brier 
and  scrub,  tripping,  falling,  rising,  never  losing  sight  of  the 
blue-clad  figure  before  him  until  at  last  she  tripped  and  fell, 
and  he  stood  panting  above  her. 

He  took  a  great  breath  or  so,  and  leaned  over  and  picked 
her  up  in  his  arms,  where  she  screamed  and  struck  and 
scratched  at  him.  He  laughed,  for  he  felt  no  longer  sensible 
to  pain,  and,  still  chuckling,  picked  his  way  carefully  back 
to  the  shore,  wading  deep  into  the  water  to  unmoor  his  boat. 
Then  with  a  swift  movement  he  dropped  the  girl  into  the 
bow,  pushed  free,  -and  clambered  actively  aboard. 

The  light,  early  morning  breeze  had  freshened,  and  he 
made  out  well  toward  the  middle  of  the  river,  never  even 
glancing  around  at  the  sound  of  the  hallooing  he  now  heard 
from  shore.  His  exertions  had  quickened  his  breathing,  but 
he  felt  strong  and  joyful.  Vashti  lay  a  huddle  of  blue  in 
the  bow,  crouched  in  fear  and  desolation,  shaken  and  torn 
with  sobbing;  but  he  made  no  effort  to  comfort  her.  He 
was  untroubled  by  any  sense  of  wrong;  he  was  simply  and 
unreasoningly  satisfied  with  what  he  had  done.  Despite  all 
his  gentle,  easygoing,  laughter-loving  existence,  he  found 
nothing  incongruous  or  unnatural  in  this  sudden  act  of 
violence.  He  was  aglow  with  happiness;  he  was  taking 
home  a  wife.  The  blind  tumult  of  capture  had  passed;  a 
great  tenderness  possessed  him. 

The  leaky  little  boat  was  plunging  and  dancing  in  swift 
ecstasy  of  movement;  all  about  them  the  little  waves  ran 
glittering  in  the  sunlight,  plashing  and  slapping  against  the 
boat's  low  side,  tossing  tiny  crests  to  the  following  wind, 
showing  rifts  of  white  here  and  there,  blowing  handfuls  of 
foam  and  spray.  Gideon  went  softly  about  the  business  of 
shortening  his  small  sail,  and  came  quietly  back  to  his  steer 
ing-seat  again.  Soon  he  would  have  to  be  making  for  what 
lea  the  western  shore  offered;  but  he  was  holding  to  the 


276    AMERICAN  HUMOROUS  SHORT  STORIES 

middle  of  the  river  as  long  as  he  could,  because  with  every 
mile  the  shores  were  growing  more  familiar,  calling  to  him 
to  make  what  speed  he  could.  Vashti's  sobbing  had  grown 
small  and  ceased;  he  wondered  if  she  had  fallen  asleep. 

Presently,  however,  he  saw  her  face  raised — a  face  still 
shining  with  tears.  She  saw  that  he  was  watching  her,  and 
crouched  low  again.  A  dash  of  spray  spattered  over  her, 
and  she  looked  up  frightened,  glancing  fearfully  overside; 
then  once  more  her  eyes  came  back  to  him,  and  this  time  she 
got  up,  still  small  and  crouching,  and  made  her  way  slowly 
and  painfully  down  the  length  of  the  boat,  until  at  last 
Gideon  moved  aside  for  her,  and  she  sank  in  the  bottom  be 
side  him,  hiding  her  eyes  in  her  gingham  sleeve. 

Gideon  stretched  out  a  broad  hand  and  touched  her  head 
lightly;  and  wkh  a  tiny  gasp  her  fingers  stole  up  to  his. 

"Honey,"  said  Gideon — "Honey,  yo'  ain'  mad,  is  yo'?" 

She  shook  her  head,  not  looking  at  him. 

"Yo'  ain'  grievin'  fob  yo'  ma?" 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"Because,"  said  Gideon,  smiling  down  at  her,  "I  ain'  got 
no  beeg  club  like  she  has." 

A  soft  and  smothered  giggle  answered  him,  and  this  time 
Vashti  looked  up  and  laid  her  head  against  him  with  a  small 
sigh  of  contentment. 

Gideon  felt  very  tender,  very  important,  at  peace  with 
himself  and  all  the  world.  He  rounded  a  jutting  point,  and 
stretched  out  a  black  hand,  pointing. 

"Yondeh  it  is,  Honey,"  he  said.    "We's  almos'  home." 


END  OF  VOLUME 


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